Eternal Sunshine of the Smithers Mind
by Lambent Flame
Summary: After an accident leaves Smithers unable to remember Mr. Burns, Burns thinks he can cope once Smithers can get back to work, while others think he's better off. Uncertain whether the memories will ever come back, they must face the possibility of parting ways. Whatever their decision, the experience changes them forever. Inspired by art/scenario from DeviantArt user UnderGrell.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Mr. Burns' head drooped, eyelids dropping as he succumbed to the urge for sleep. After a second of them being closed, his head jerked up, eyes opening wide as he gasped. Smithers set a mug of coffee on the desk in front of him, and he took a long, slow sip. "You know, Smithers," he said, setting the coffee back on the desk and swiveling his chair to face him, "I could really go for a little excitement."

"I'll get the nutmeg."

"Not exciting enough."

What did you have in mind?"

"I don't know, something to make me gay."

"Like firing someone?"

Burns' eyes narrowed in devious glee. "Exactly."

"Who would you like to fire today, sir? There are lots of loafers to pick from today if the security monitors are any indication," he said, gesturing to the monitors, where workers could be seen drinking, having a cockfight, and sleeping.

"Hm..." His eyes scanned the monitors. "Let's pay all the loafers a visit, put the fear of Burns into them, and I'll decide then who is most deserving of my wrath."

"Great idea, sir."

They walked throughout the plant, never missing an opportunity to make the employees jump and get back to work, beads of sweat trailing the sides of their faces. On their way back to his office, Burns said, "Intimidating the dithering drones was such a lark! There are so many prime candidates for dismissal, it's hard to choose."

"May I suggest Homer Simpson? He's the least useful person on payroll, and by all accounts is more a liability than an asset."

"No, he may come in handy. You never know when you'll need someone to throw to the wolves. Or reactor core, as the case may be."

"Okay, then, how about that guy stroking the rifle?"

"Hm... We'll put him in the 'maybe' pile." His eyes darted to a screen far off to the side. "What in the devil is that man doing?" He pointed to one of the monitors displaying Lenny in the cafeteria.

Smithers approached the monitor and leaned in for a closer look. "It appears he's taking mustard packets from the cafeteria."

"Steal my mustard, will he? This egregious offense will not go without retaliation."

"But sir, the mustard packets are there for employees to use with their lunches."

"Don't be ridiculous; what man needs that much mustard on his sandwich?" 

"I don't know. Maybe he really likes mustard."

"Tell you what – if he takes one more packet of mustard, we fire him." Lenny began to walk away from the condiments table, and Smithers gave him a "what were you worried about?" look. Then, after walking out of frame, Lenny went back and stuffed three more mustard packets into his hand. Burns tented his fingers and said, "Let's go."

Smithers closed his eyes for a moment and smiled, relishing that gleeful evil look of his, his delightfully malevolent laughter. Mr. Burns did so enjoy firing people that Smithers couldn't help but take some pleasure in it, even if he thought there were more deserving employees. He followed Burns to the cafeteria to confront Lenny.

Lenny dropped a pile of mustard packets on the table where Carl and Homer were sitting. "Here you go, Homer. But that's the last time I'm getting you more mustard packets. You know what they say happened to that guy who took too many ketchup packets here."

Homer said, "Pfft, that was ketchup. You're living in the past, Lenny."

"Lenny!" said Smithers, brusque. "How many mustard packets did you take?"

"Ah, uh..." He looked down at the tabletop and counted. "T-twenty-three, but –"

Burns said, "And you thought you would get away with it?"

"But t-they're not for me! I got them for Homer."

"Spare me your excuses, and get packing! You're fired!"

"But –"

"Smithers, I think the hounds haven't had enough exercise today. What do you think?"

"It has been a while since they've tasted human flesh."

"All right, all right, I'm leaving!" said Lenny, rushing out the cafeteria, other co-workers looking on in trepidation.

Burns looked around at his gawking employees. "And the rest of you, get back to work!"

All except Homer rushed out and got back to their stations, lunches left in progress at the tables. "Thanks for the mustard, Lenny!" said Homer, still seated and preparing to sample the remaining lunches as Burns and Smithers left the cafeteria.

"Ah, that's what's been missing from my life, Smithers! A good old-fashioned firing!"

"Your enthusiastic firings put Donald Trump to shame."

"Indeed, he's a mere amateur compared to me. He wouldn't be fit to fire my chef."

"I'd hope not; I'm the one who prepares most of your meals, after all. Speaking of which, what would you like for lunch today, sir?"

"Let's go out to eat. I'm in the mood for Luigi's."

"When would you like to take your lunch?"

"Let's leave now."

"I'll get the car warmed up."

They pulled in front of Luigi's a few minutes later, and Smithers got out to open Burns' door and guide him out, watching out for oncoming traffic. They chose a table inside and seated themselves, Luigi bringing them wine as they ordered. When Luigi left for the kitchen and shouted their orders to the kitchen staff, Burns took a slow sip of his Merlot, his eyes half-lidded until they caught Smithers' warm and inviting smile. For a moment, he had felt utterly alone, only to look up and see the proof he was not. "You enjoy my company, don't you?" 

Smithers widened his smile, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "Like no one else's."

The corner of Burns' mouth tilted upward in a hint of a smile. He reached out and patted Smithers' forearm a couple of times, saying, "I enjoy yours, as well," then withdrawing his arm to take another sip of wine.

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate that." They ate lunch, gossiping about their employees and discussing the cultural events they looked forward to attending.

As they walked out of the restaurant and approached the limousine, Smithers took Burns by the elbow to guide him. "I don't need you to lead me around like a crossing-guard with a child," he said, wrestling his arm out of Smithers' hand.

"I know, sir, but this street gets rather busy this time of day," he said, looking down as he approached the driver's seat from the other side, "and I couldn't stand to see you get hit by a – CAR!"

"No need to shout; my hearing is still –" Before he could finish, Smithers was tackling him from the street side, pushing him out of the way of an oncoming car. Burns lifted his head from the asphalt and noted Smithers wasn't on top of him, and he couldn't actually see where Smithers was. "Smithers?" He strained to push himself up and looked around. "Smithers! Smithers, where are you?" He finally spotted him on the sidewalk of the other side of the street near the corner. The first car to have struck him had been turning right, and Smithers had bounced off the hood of the car only to get struck by a car coming from the street the first one had turned onto, and his head had struck a lamppost. "Smithers..." He ran across the street and rubbed the inside of Smithers' wrist. "Smithers, speak to me."

Smithers groaned softly, eyes shut, his body limp.

"Smithers, look at me." He turned Smithers' chin to face him.

His eyes fluttered open. "W-what happened?"

"You were struck by a car."

"Oh." He sat up. "It couldn't have been too bad."

The creases of worry in Burns' forehead faded. "No, dear friend, it appears it wasn't."

"Just one question, sir."

"Yes?"

"Who are you?"

"Good heavens! You don't recognize me?"

"No."

Burns took out his cell phone and called 911. "Operator, this is Charles Montgomery Burns speaking. Smithers has just been struck by a car, and he doesn't recognize me. Send help right away!" He cupped Smithers' cheek in the palm of his hand and said, "You'll be okay, Waylon. Everything is going to be okay." Smithers fell unconscious, and Burns pressed his cheek against Smithers' other cheek, his eyes squeezing shut and shedding a tear on Smithers' face. "You have to pull through, Smithers. What would I do without you?" He thought about his recently renewed taste for independence, but then he realized he wasn't worried about being unable to carry on the tasks of living. He was worried about having to do it alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Burns pulled his limousine crookedly in front of the ambulance bay, brakes screeching as the wheels skidded to a stop. He flung open the door and left it ajar as he ran for the emergency department, where he saw Dr. Hibbert and some nurses around a hospital bed with Smithers strapped against it, c-spine collar around his neck, intravenous lines running from his arms, bags of blood and saline hanging at either side as they connected him to a monitor. Burns rushed to the foot of his bed, grasping the rail and leaning forward, eyes darting back and forth between the monitors and Smithers' unmoving eyes.

Amid Dr. Hibbert giving direction to the nurses, Mr. Burns said, "Is he going to be okay?"

"We'll know soon," said Dr. Hibbert. "As soon as he's stable, we'll send him for a CT scan. Then we'll know more about his condition." They finished securing his airway and sent him for a scan.

As they wheeled him back into the trauma room, Burns said, "Tell me, sawbones, how is he?"

"He has a few broken ribs and his right lung has collapsed, and he's experienced some bleeding in the temporal lobes. We have to place a chest tube to allow his lungs to fully expand, then we'll send him straight to the neurosurgeon."

"Surgeon?" Smithers began to convulse, the muscles throughout his body contracting rhythmically. "What's happening?"

"He's having a seizure," said Dr. Hibbert. "Nurse, four milligrams lorazepam, IV push." She administered the medication through the IV line, and after a minute, the convulsions ceased, and Dr. Hibbert began placing the chest tube. Mr. Burns walked to Smithers' left side and held his hand, looking pensively at the tubes leading into Smithers' mouth and out of the side of his chest. "The chest tube is in place. His oxygen sat is rising."

"And that's good?"

"Yes, Mr. Burns. It means the chest tube is working and he's getting the oxygen he needs." After a minute of watching his vital signs normalize, Dr. Hibbert said, "It's time to take him to surgery."

Mr. Burns, still holding Smithers' hand, leaned forward and whispered in his ear, "I'll be here when you wake up." He gave Smithers' hand a squeeze and let it slip out between his fingers as they carted him off to the operating room.

Mr. Burns waited out the grueling five hours in the harsh and sterile light of the waiting room, flipping through magazines with unrestrained disdain for their insipid contents and calling upon hospital staff to bring him foods and other creature comforts as he feigned an insouciance about Smithers' sudden crisis.

Smithers' mother rushed in to speak with the receptionist, who contacted Dr. Hibbert to bring her up to speed and directed her to sit in the waiting room, where she saw Mr. Burns complaining to staff about the ludicrously uncomfortable seating. "I shouldn't be surprised, but I am. Mr. Burns, Waylon is at death's door, and you're wallowing in self-pity over your own ass. Don't you even care about him? Aren't you worried he might not make it?"

"Balderdash, of course he'll make it. I've survived falls from a third-story window, and he's sixty years younger than I. Of course he'll make it. He's young, and strong, and healthy, and he wouldn't leave me as long as I need him. If he dares run out on me now, I'm giving him a pay cut."

"How did this happen? What did you do?"

"He was helping me inside my limousine when he pushed me out of the path of an approaching automobile."

"Oh my God. I'm going to lose my son because he gave his life for a bitter, old miser who's had one foot in the grave since the Reagan administration."

"She-yeesh. I see where he gets it from."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm suggesting your son inherited his propensity for melancholic, melodramatic, catastrophic hyperbole from you."

Mumbling under her breath, she said, "I don't know what he sees in you." At a normal volume, she said, "You don't even care, do you?" 

"Of course I care. I want Smithers back on his feet so he can return to work as soon as possible."

"About him. I don't mean your profits or efficiency. I mean, do you care about _him_?"

"Yes. Hard as it may be for you to believe... yes, I do." He looked up at the ceiling tiles and began counting the tiny holes in them. "If I have to make a pact with Satan to save him, I will. He's already got my soul, so I'm not sure what else I can give... I suppose I could promise him my heart." He sharply inhaled, violently sniffing up a tear before it could fall from his eye. "I don't want to walk this Earth without him. Waylon, I mean."

He sent for some goons to bring him some keepsakes from his mansion as well as from Smithers' apartment. They periodically entered with another requested item – first, Bobo, whom he held to comfort himself, then various other mementos. He ordered tea and scones, and when they arrived on a silver tray atop a cart, he and Mrs. Smithers partook in silence.

A goon brought in a Malibu Stacy doll and handed it to Burns. Mrs. Smithers fixed her eyes on it. "That's one of Waylon's dolls, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. It's one I gave him for his birthday when he was a boy."

"May I see it?" Burns nodded and handed it to her. She brushed the immaculately kept shiny blonde hair away from the doll's face and ran her fingers down the side of the elegant blue, silky gown, then brought it to her face and cried.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" He took the doll from her and stroked its hair and stared into its eyes. "Waylon will be fine."

"It's not that. When he was little, he begged me for a Malibu Stacy of his own. I kept telling him 'no,' afraid the other boys would tease him, which they did anyway. It was years before I finally bought him one. You should've seen the look on his face. Years later, he confessed that it was the first time he felt like I truly accepted him." She began to weep, and Burns handed her a red handkerchief with his initials monogrammed in gold. "I've been such a horrible mother!"

"Nonsense. He speaks fondly about you."

"I can't imagine why."

"Mrs. Smithers, regardless of any missteps you may have taken, it's obvious you love him. More than my parents loved me. Now, will you quit your blubbering and allow me a chance to fret?" He poured himself another cup of tea from the kettle. _Here you go, sir. Just the way you like it._ His eyes widened in a moment of panic, wondering whether Smithers would ever pour him tea again. _Here's Bobo, hot from the dryer._ He smiled and squeezed his Bobo, remembering when Smithers had donned a bear costume to cheer him up when he thought he'd lost him for good. _Mr. Burns, I cherish every moment we're together._

Finally, the neurosurgeon entered the waiting room. "His surgery went well," she said. "They've taken him to the ICU for recovery."

"Can we see him?" said Mrs. Smithers.

"Yes, but he won't be conscious for a while."

Mr. Burns said, "Let's go."

"I'll take you to his room." She led them through the hospital halls to his room, then spoke with Dr. Hibbert to update him on the surgery. The neurosurgeon left, and Dr. Hibbert led them into Smithers' room, where he had drains sticking out of either side of his head.

"It'll be a while before the anesthetic wears off," said Dr. Hibbert. Mr. Burns took one hand and Mrs. Smithers took the other. "Now, you must realize that he may suffer some permanent damage from his injuries. He sustained some damage to his parietal and temporal lobes, so he might experience problems with speech, memory, coordination, or even paralysis. We can expect him to improve the most in the first three months." Mrs. Smithers stroked his cheek, while Mr. Burns stared at her tender gesture in quiet envy. He reached forward and clasped his other hand around Smithers' and squeezed. "I'll leave you two alone with him."

Once Dr. Hibbert shut the door, Mr. Burns said, "Waylon, I don't know if you can hear me, but if you can... I must say, I enjoy your company like no one else's, and no one could possibly replace you. God knows I've tried."

Mrs. Smithers said, "Honey, your mother loves you, exactly as you are. And your father would, too, if he were still here."

"That's true. Your father really loved you." Burns screwed up his face. "Oh, what are we doing? He can't hear us."

Mrs. Smithers kept stroking her son's cheek and kissed his forehead, just below where they had shaved his hair off for the surgery. "Your loved ones are here for you."

After about an hour, Mrs. Smithers excused herself to use the bathroom, and Mr. Burns leaned forward, then looked back to the door to ensure no one could see him and touched Smithers' cheek, looked back again, then leaned in further and kissed his forehead. "Thank you." He closed his arms around Smithers' torso and laid his cheek on his shoulder, a tear slipping out of his eye. "Thank you."

"If you really want to thank him, you'll wait until he regains consciousness so he can appreciate it."

Mr. Burns spun around to see Mrs. Smithers standing at the door and disengaged, twiddling his fingers nervously against each other. "You didn't really go to the bathroom; you were spying on us through that window!"

"Yes, well, you can't truly know a man's character until you've watched him when he thinks he's alone." As Burns stammered, she said, "I admit, you surprised me. I wasn't sure you were capable of gratitude or affection."

"Mrs. Smithers, your inability to comprehend our relationship notwithstanding, it hardly seems appropriate for you to intrude on what was meant to be a private moment between us."

Mrs. Smithers' eyes widened. "I didn't realize you felt that way about my son."

"There is a lot that you don't know about me." He slowly reached a trembling hand for Smithers' and clasped it again, intertwining their fingers. His eyes drifted to Smithers', his lower lip wobbling and tensing in turns. His own eyelids drooped as he longed for sleep, but he kept opening them, firm in his resolve to be awake when Smithers awoke. "I'm here for you, Waylon."

"So," said Mrs. Smithers. "How long?" 

"Hm?" said Burns, only mildly distracted, his gaze fixed on Smithers.

"Your relationship with him. How long has it been going on?"

"We've been good friends for the better part of twenty-five years. Surely you're aware of that."

"No, I mean – how long have you... reciprocated his feelings?"

"Truth be told, I've regarded him as little more than a pawn for much of our partnership. But that's all changed. When he left me, I realized just how much he meant to me. Not only in business, but...personally. There is no one I've felt closer to. It would be hell to lose him again."

"The surgeon said it went well."

"He couldn't recognize me."

"What?"

"After the accident. He was briefly conscious, and..." He sniffed as another tear began its descent along his cheek. "He didn't know who I am." He turned his head sharply away, hoping to conceal his distress. "He didn't know who I am." His eyes clenched tightly shut in a vain attempt to head off his tears.

Mrs. Smithers put an arm around his shoulder. "I'm sure it was only because he was in shock. He'll remember you." She rubbed his shoulder reassuringly. "I can't imagine Waylon not remembering who you are. Do you have any idea how much you mean to him?"

"Enough for him to risk his life to save mine." He stiffened his lips and his shoulders. "But what would I know? I've had a foot in the grave since the Reagan administration."

"I'm sorry, Monty. I didn't realize you cared about him like that. I'm still not used to – it took me a long time to accept him as he is. I just wanted him to be happy." She leaned against Burns, crying into his shoulder. Burns awkwardly patted her shoulder and guided her away from himself. "He knows that I never hated him, right?"

"He knows."

They waited at his side, Burns first falling asleep in his chair, followed by Smithers' mother. When they awoke in the early hours of the next morning, they took breakfast, orange juice and oatmeal, at his side. They remained with him throughout the day, only leaving to relieve themselves.

Late in the afternoon, while they each stroked the back of one of Smithers' hands, his eyes flickered open. Smithers groaned weakly, his eyes still unfocused, and they leaned over him.

"Mom?" he said, his voice croaking.

She held his hand up to her heart and brought her lips down to kiss between his knuckles, crying as she smiled. "Yes, Waylon. I'm here for you."

Burns squeezed his hand and smiled. "I'm here for you, too." He leaned forward and hugged him, running his hands up and down from Smithers' elbows to his neck.

Eyebrows tensed in confusion and fright, Smithers said, "Who are you?" Dr. Hibbert entered the room.

"You still don't recognize me?" Smithers shook his head. "I'm Monty Burns, your – you really don't remember me?"

"No," he said.

"You saved my life." At Smithers' unrecognizing eyes, Burns' forehead wrinkled in worry, and he laid the palm of his hand on Smithers' cheek. "Good heavens, Waylon, you must know who I am."

Dr. Hibbert took a few steps forward and put his hand on Burns' shoulder. "It could be post-surgical confusion. Give him time to remember."

"Yes, that must be it. You'll get better," he said, stroking Smithers' cheek for a second before bringing his hand back to his side. "That's what hospitals are for – to make you better. You'll be good as new in no time."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Mr. Burns picked up the phone in his office. "Ahoy-hoy?"

Smithers said, "Monty?"

"Waylon!"

"Can we talk?"

"We already are. Or have you forgotten that already?" He could hear Smithers snicker on the other end of the line.

"No. I mean, can we talk face-to-face?"

"Why, I think that can be arranged," he said, flipping through his datebook and crossing out a meeting. "I'll see you soon." He pressed a button on his intercom. "Plaskett, move the board meeting to tomorrow at two."

Mr. Burns stopped at the hospital gift shop to get a bouquet of pink and white roses and pale blue hydrangeas, then proceeded to Smithers' room. He swung the door open and approached Smithers' bedside. "Well, I'm here. What did you want to talk to me about?" Realizing his abruptness had caught Smithers off-guard, he held out the bouquet. "I got these for you." Burns pulled out a thin, blue vase and set it on the table beside his bed.

"Thank you, Monty," he said, slipping the stems at the base of the bouquet through the narrow lip of the vase.

"Does that vase seem familiar to you?"

He wrinkled his eyebrows. "No. Should it?"

"You gave it to me last year when I left the hospital after my bout with hypohemia."

"I'm afraid I don't remember."

"I brought the card you gave me, too." He pulled a card from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to Smithers. It was a standard "get well soon" card with floral imagery and ornate, shiny, and embossed gold lettering. He opened it to see paper-clipped to the inside a picture of Smithers hugging one of the hounds and giving a sad smile. A handwritten note read: "The hounds and I can't wait for you to get back on your feet. Monty, you're more precious to me than the air I breathe. With love, Waylon Smithers."

Smithers inspected the card, taking careful note of his handwritten message. "I can tell you meant a lot to me. That's why I wanted to talk to you."

"Here," he said, handing Smithers Bobo. "Surely you remember who this happy little fellow is."

"No, I can't say I do."

"You still don't remember anything about us?"

"I'm sorry. I don't."

"You don't remember going to a Turkish prison for trying to buy opium for me? You don't remember when I ran for governor? When you donated your kidney to me? When I blocked out the sun and got shot by a baby? When we fled to Cuba to evade charges for stealing a trillion dollars? When I flew to Canada to secure your lifesaving thyroid medication? You mean to tell me you remember none of that?" Smithers shook his head, obviously distressed at being unable to recall such integral moments in his life, and scrutinized the bear in his hands. "His name is Bobo, by the way." Burns absentmindedly stroked Bobo's ear. "He's my cherished childhood teddy bear. We went through such great lengths to retrieve him, and you had him restored for me."

"How did we meet?"

"Well, your father worked for me, so I saw you when you were a baby, and occasionally when you were a child. Do you remember what happened to your father?"

"Yes. I do, actually. He died in an accident at the plant, didn't he?"

"How do you know that? I didn't tell you that until last year, and you've forgotten everything else we've done together."

"I don't know."

"Well, anyway, I didn't really get to know you until you were a young man. You did chores for me as a summer job your last year of high school, and then in college, you did an internship with me. We were fast friends, much as your father and I were, and I insisted you apply for a full-time position with me, and you insisted upon it as well."

"How long was it before we...?"

"Oh, it wasn't long at all. I knew that if we didn't finalize things quickly, some other man would snap you up, and I wasn't willing to take that risk with such a capable young man. And you've satisfied me with your performance every day since then."

"Every day, really?"

"Yes, well, you've always been so energetic, so eager to serve me. Oh, sure, you've had to change positions a few times before we figured out what worked best, but frankly, as long as you're with me, I don't care what position I have you in."

"It might be a while before I'm comfortable... being in that position again with you. You know, until I get to know you better."

"You'll be comfortable in whatever position I tell you to be in."

"Ooh, yes, sir! You're making the proposition increasingly palatable." He licked his upper lip. "Tell me more about yourself, Monty."

"I am a billionaire and CEO of Springfield Nuclear Power Plant. I am a Yale alumnus, a member of the Springfield Glen Country Club, and a man who appreciates the finer things. And should anyone cross me, they'll have to contend with my hounds ripping them apart."

"It sounds like we've led an exciting life. Why did we flee to Cuba, again?"

"After the second world war, the United States charged me with the responsibility of delivering a trillion dollar bill to allied countries in Europe, and I thought, 'Why should they get a trillion dollars for nearly losing? If they weren't strong enough to fend off invading forces by themselves, then I say, "hard cheese" to them. Wouldn't our country's money be better spent rewarding the successful?' So I pocketed the bill and became the richest man in the world, and I remained so until the CIA found out and tried to apprehend me earlier this year."

Smithers gasped. "The world is so unfair. Then what happened?"

"Fortunately, the reporter who had been interviewing me – who happened to also be employed at my nuclear plant, as you later informed me – knocked them out, and we headed for your apartment in my Stutz Bearcat. You were wearing your bathrobe over your clothes when I arrived and pulled you outside, and you drove us to a hangar, and we flew off in search of an island to make our own."

"I take it we didn't live happily ever after on an island paradise?"

Burns' eyes grew downcast. "No... I landed the plane in Cuba and this Castro fellow stole the trillion dollar bill and banished us to the ocean on a raft."

"Good Lord! How did we get out of that one?"

"Well, after a few days adrift, U.S. Coast Guard spotted us and arrested me. I bribed the jury and walked free."

"What a harrowing ordeal."

"It was dicey at times. Particularly on the second evening at sea, when I fell into the water. You promptly pulled me back up onto the raft, but with night fast approaching, I began to shiver. We didn't have any towels, so you held me against your chest, and your body heat sustained me through the night. Throughout that night, I thought about how the last thing I'd said to you before this mess began was a churlish comment about the dinner you'd cooked for me, and yet you'd upended your life on a dime to spare me from a lengthy prison sentence. I never properly thanked you for that. So... thank you."

"Thanks."

They spoke for hours, Burns recounting many of their escapades, primarily focusing on their recent history and a few of his favorite stories from earlier in their partnership that he frequently looked back on. "Is any of this bringing back your memories?"

Smithers gradually closed his eyes. "No. I'm afraid it isn't."

Burns sighed in frustration. "I've tried every herbal tincture for amnesia on you, spent hours talking to you about our lives, and what has it profited us? Nothing! And that quack Hibbert hasn't been any help, either." He looked away and to the floor. "I don't want to let you go, but perhaps I must," he said under his breath. "I've exhausted every option. Unless..." He turned back and stared fixedly into Smithers' eyes, his own face having somehow slackened and tensed at once.

"What are you thinking about? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Burns' cheeks flushed, and he nervously rubbed the back of his neck with the palm of his hand. "I had a thought – it may sound absurd, but – oh, what the hell?" He pressed his hands against Smithers' cheeks and quickly leaned in to plant a kiss on his lips. Smithers' eyes opened wide, his heart fluttering, and as soon as he had processed the kiss, it was over. "Smithers? Waylon, how do you feel?"

"I feel..."

"Yes?"

"I feel... a sense of impending doom. Like I'm going to die. Oh Lord, your kiss gave me a heart attack, didn't it? My first kiss since the accident and now I'm having a heart attack. That's just great."

Burns pressed a button to page Dr. Hibbert, who came walking swiftly to Smithers' bedside. "Smithers says he's having a heart attack." He clasped his hand over Smithers' wrist.

A nurse affixed ECG leads to Smithers' chest and Dr. Hibbert looked at the readout. "Sinus tachycardia. Nurse, what's his TSH?" She handed him a chart. "Normal. Mr. Smithers, you're not having a heart attack. You're just twitterpated." He chuckled, patted his shoulder, and left the room.

"Waylon, I – I think I know the reason you felt like you were going to die."

"Really? Why?"

"One day, there was a silly prophecy that turned out to be a marketing gimmick that the end would come by sundown. As the people of Springfield awaited doom, we standing among them, you took my face into your hands and kissed me."

"I don't remember much... But I do remember that." He sighed inwardly. "I wish I could remember more about the life we had."

"It will come in time," he said, running his hand along Smithers' wrist. "I hope."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

"He's broken some of the metacarpals in his right hand, and he has a few broken ribs. The good news is that his language skills are mostly intact, apart from some word-finding difficulties," said Dr. Hibbert outside Smithers' hospital room with Mr. Burns and Mrs. Smithers. "However, he has sustained nerve damage. We don't know yet how much will be permanent. He might be able to walk again, since some nerve function has been preserved in his lower spine and legs, but it will take time."

Burns said, "What about his memory?"

"It's difficult to say. Most of his memories seem intact except for those about you. There is the possibility that his amnesia is primarily psychological instead of neurological. Is there a reason he might want to forget you?"

"You mean to say he... doesn't _want_ to remember me?" Burns choked up, his eyes big and sad.

Mrs. Smithers said, "Dr. Hibbert, why would you say such a thing?" and put a comforting arm around Burns' shoulder.

"I'm merely advancing a theory," said Dr. Hibbert, jovially, then clearing his throat to speak seriously. "I only suggest it because this type of selective amnesia usually has a psychological root."

"There is no way Waylon would want to forget Mr. Burns. For the last two decades, he's wanted nothing more than to be with him. He risked his life for him. I am firmly convinced there is nothing he would want more than to remember Mr. Burns."

"He's going to need significant help in his recovery. He'll need assistance getting around, bathing, fixing meals, doing laundry... At first, he'll spend most of his time lying in bed and sleeping a lot, as he's been doing. For the next few weeks, his ability to think will be significantly impaired. It'll be months before he's regained a semblance of normality. Do you think you can handle that, Mr. Burns?" said Dr. Hibbert as he prepared the discharge papers.

Burns nodded. Mrs. Smithers looked taken aback that Dr. Hibbert had assumed Burns would take care of him when she was standing right there. As Dr. Hibbert handed the post-surgical instructions to Mr. Burns and opened the door to Smithers' room, he gestured to Mrs. Smithers and said, "If I could have a word alone with Mrs. Smithers?" Burns nodded and entered Smithers' room. Once he'd shut the door, Dr. Hibbert said, "I hope you weren't offended that I'm tasking Mr. Burns with his recovery."

"Oh, no, I just..."

"He has nursed him through a thyroid storm and some other serious injuries. And with his servants at the manor, changing the linens and preparing food for him are all much more easily accomplished, not to mention that he can hire nurses to attend to him."

"I understand."

"In addition, it will probably help him remember Mr. Burns if he's around him each day. Clearly, that would've been his top priority before his accident."

"That's true."

"Well, I have to go see other patients. Good luck, and don't let him get his hands on any Chinese finger traps in the next few weeks. The aftermath is hilarious but tragic," he said, chuckling.

She went back into her son's room and saw Burns with his hand over the back of Smithers'. She approached him from behind and placed the palm of her hand over Burns' wrist, startling him. "Take good care of my son."

"Yes, I will." To Smithers, he said, "I brought the Pontiac Astrowagon I won at that ballgame to transport your wheelchair. It's parked in front of the entrance." He rolled a wheelchair up to Smithers' bed.

"Waylon," she said, turning to him, "call me when you get there. If there's anything you need, let me know."

"I will, Mom."

Burns pulled the Astrowagon up to the front entrance of the manor. He brought the wheelchair out the back, rolling the wheels over the ramp extending from the spacious trunk, then wheeled it to the passenger seat where Smithers was sitting. He helped support Smithers on his way from the seat to the wheelchair. "I had my contractors add a wheelchair ramp while you were in the hospital. You will, however, be limited in where you can go inside, since there are many staircases, and I didn't have them put ramps every which way." Smithers began to wheel himself up the ramp that had been added over part of the steps to the entrance, but he was unable to muster the strength to push himself up the steep slope, so he stalled at the bottom as Burns made his way up.

"Um, Monty?"

Irritated, Burns turned back and said, "What is it?"

"I can't push my wheelchair up this ramp; it's too steep."

"Very well," he said with a sigh. He walked back to Smithers and drew in a breath before cracking his knuckles and pushing him up the ramp. Burns opened the door and input the security code, then led him through the main hall.

"Wow, you weren't kidding when you said you were a billionaire," said Smithers, craning his neck around to examine the architecture and furnishings as Burns closed the doors to Burns Manor behind them. "This place is breathtaking. Do I really live here?"

"Yes, you'll be living here." Burns sat on a burgundy chair facing the windows near the door, and Smithers wheeled himself up beside him. "My servants will be at your beck and call. This pager will summon them," he said, handing Smithers a small, red disk with speaker holes and a brighter red button that fit in the palm of his hand. "Simply hold down this button to speak to them and release it when you are through or to allow them to ask any questions. If you want more pills, they will get them for you. If you want a live performance of a Mozart concerto to lull you to sleep, they will arrange that. If you want –"

"Thanks, I've got it. What I really want right now is a sandwich."

Burns pressed and held down the button. "Smithers is going to make a request. Remember my instructions to do exactly what he says."

He released the button, and a man's voice came through the speakers. "Yes, Mr. Burns." Burns looked to Smithers expectantly.

Smithers pressed the button with an index finger. "I want a sandwich, please."

"Right away, sir," came back the servant's voice. "What kind of sandwich would you like, Mr. Smithers?"

Burns pried Smithers' finger off the button and said, "What is this 'please' nonsense? You should be giving a command. They are my employees, and they are yours to do with as you please. That's their job. Now, give them an order like you're in charge." He released Smithers' hand.

Clearing his throat, Smithers pressed down again on the button and said, "I'll have a Monte Cristo. Deep fried. With french fries. And truffle grated over the fries," he said, his voice increasingly authoritative. "And a side of bacon!"

"Coming right up, Mr. Smithers. Anything you'd like to drink with that?"

"Lemonade."

"And where would you like me to bring it when it's ready?"

"Here. In the...um..." He looked around the room, searching for the word for it.

"In the main hall," Burns said. "I suppose you're tired of hospital fare. Still, it's not like you."

"What's not like me?"

"You're normally such a healthy eater."

"The doctor did say the steroids could increase my... my... make me hungry."

Almost half an hour later, a man in a chef's outfit brought a tray on wheels carrying the Monte Cristo, fries, and lemonade. "Here is your food, sir. I hope it's to your liking."

"Thanks, that'll be all."

As the servant left, Burns shook his head disapprovingly. "It's that man's job to serve me, and now you. You don't need to thank him for simply doing his job."

"Did you never thank me when I worked for you?"

"There might have been an occasion..." He searched back through his thoughts, trying to think of such an occasion. "Well, what are you waiting for? Dig in."

"I can't lift my arms enough," he said, struggling to reach the tray, which was about the height of his lips while he was seated in his chair.

"Oh," said Burns, activating a lever on one side of the cart, and the tray swung out to lower in front of him. "There you are." Smithers put his hands around one half of the sandwich and lifted it up, but his hands gave out and plopped onto the tray. "What the devil is the matter now?"

"My arms are tired. I can't hold the sandwich up long enough to take a bite."

"Well, don't look at me. I'm not about to help you stuff your face with that greasy monstrosity."

"I guess I should've asked for something that would be easier to eat."

Burns' eyes softened. _He did save my life. I suppose I wouldn't suffer terribly if I helped him take a few bites._ "Here," he said, tucking a napkin embroidered with his own initials behind the collar of Smithers' shirt. "Let me help you." He grabbed half of the Monte Cristo and held it up to Smithers' lips, steadying it so he could take a bite, then pulling it back to give him room to chew, and repeating. "How do you like it?" he asked after a few bites. Smithers nodded and smiled in approval. "Excellent," said Burns, feeding him another bite.

After he finished half the sandwich, Burns helping him sip lemonade between bites, Smithers said, "I'd like to try the fries and bacon now."

"Of course." He fed Smithers fries and bacon piece by piece. Sometimes, especially when feeding him small pieces, the tip of Burns' index finger would slip between Smithers' lips, and they would lock eyes for a moment, then Burns would withdraw his fingers to pick up more food. After Smithers had eaten most of the fries on the platter, Burns held up the other half of the Monte Cristo until Smithers finished it.

"Mmm..." Smithers patted his stomach. "With cooks like that, I can't believe you're so thin."

"Yes, well not everyone would choose to have a deep-fried sandwich on the daily." He looked to his watch. "When is that blasted nurse going to get here? He's already twenty minutes late!"

"Maybe it's not the best time, but I really have to use the bathroom."

"There's one by the ballroom. Third door on the left."

"I'm going to need some help getting out of this chair and onto the toilet."

"Oh. Yes, yes," said Burns, getting up and behind Smithers and pushing him into the bathroom. He closed the door and said, "So, how do you want to do this?"

"Let's start with the... the... the round things you...tie?" In frustration, Smithers pointed to his button fly.

"You mean the buttons?"

"Yes. Buttons."

"Okay," he said, getting on his knees and unfastening the buttons. "Now I'll just..." He tugged at Smithers' slacks from the knees, but they didn't slip past his hips. "I'll have to try something else." He tucked his fingers between the pants and Smithers' waist, then began to roll them down his sides until they were halfway to his knees. He took the same approach to roll his underwear down.

When raising his eyes from Smithers' knees to his face, Burns caught a glimpse of Smithers' crotch, and it struck him suddenly that he'd never seen Smithers naked before. Smithers had seen him nude more times than he could count, but he'd never been privileged with even a passing glance of his assistant unclothed below the waist. _Do I really consider it a privilege that I get to see his nether region?_ He looked down again, and he could feel his cheeks rouge and that slight nervous twitch he got at the corner of his eye when he didn't know what to say. A slight, fleeting hum of satisfaction buzzed past his lips. "Come on, Monty, don't be so shy."

"I wasn't!"

"Then can you help me onto the toilet? I really need to go."

"Yes, let's get your chair positioned better." He moved the chair so Smithers was closer to the toilet seat. "When I tell you to, push yourself up off the chair as much as you can, and I'll try to hoist you onto the seat. Ready?" Smithers nodded. "Now!" Smithers strained to lift himself up, and Burns grabbed him around his torso and shifted him a few inches onto the toilet seat.

When Smithers tried to clean himself, he found that he couldn't maintain his grasp of the toilet paper Burns handed to him, and they simply fell into the bowl before they could be used. "I'm sorry, I can't seem to hold on to it."

"Don't apologize," said Burns, voice tinged with frustration as he took the toilet paper into his own hand and cleaned him. After a quick swipe, he thought to himself, _Don't half-ass this, Monty. The man saved your life. Thank heaven he didn't lose his like his father did._ He helped roll the underwear back up, then jostled the pants back up to Smithers' waist and buttoned them up. Smithers tried to lift himself, and Burns heaved him back into the chair, then flushed and washed his hands. "You know you're the only person I would ever even consider doing this for."

"I thought I might be." When they left the bathroom, Burns pushing Smithers out into the hall, Smithers said, "I need a nap."

"I'll show you to your room." He brought Smithers to the East Wing of the manor and led him to the room across from his own. "It's the room you would stay in sometimes when working nights here before I had the addition built." The room had a couple of Malibu Stacy dolls, a poster from his Malibu Stacy musical, and a couple of Smithers' sweaters draped over a chair. It was growing darker by the minute in that late afternoon as the world turned Springfield swiftly toward the night. "Would you prefer that I draw the curtains?" asked Burns.

"Yes, please."

He drew the curtains and the room descended into darkness. "I suppose you'll need help getting into bed now." Smithers nodded, and Burns wrapped his arms around Smithers' torso and hoisted him up and onto the bed. Burns pulled the covers over him. "Sleep well, Waylon."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Smithers woke up in a pitch black room with no conception of the time. He reached for his phone and held it up to his face, but he had a hard time making sense of the numbers and letters on it. Remembering the red call button Burns had given him, he brought it out and pressed it.

"Tell me what time it is?"

"It's 8:14 p.m., sir," said a woman. At first it seemed odd, as if he'd expected it to always be the same person answering, but of course the servants must work in shifts and have lives outside the manor. "Is there anything you'd like?"

"Water."

"Coming right up."

"I'm in a room of the East Wing –"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Burns informed us earlier. Your water will be there in a minute."

"Thanks," he said, then set the control on the nightstand. He had a feeling Burns would have many opportunities to chastise him over thanking the servants. He felt his glasses on the nightstand and put them on. _No wonder I couldn't read the time on my phone._ He brought his phone back up to his face to try to read it. Even knowing what time it was, he had a hard time making sense of it.

A servant brought in his glass of water, and he sat up and drank it down quickly, then asked for more. A few minutes later, they brought him more water and his medications, and soon after that, the door opened and Burns walked in. "Smithers? I brought you some tea." He walked in, his hand jittering from holding the teapot while the other hand held two empty teacups and saucers. He set the cups down on the nightstand and poured two cups of tea, then set down the teapot and took one cup for himself as he sat beside Smithers on the bed.

"Thanks," he said, taking his cup of tea into his hands.

"Yes, well, I thought you would appreciate it." He stared into his own reflection in the tea. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine, I guess. I have a splitting headache, though."

"Do you want to get back to sleep?"

"No, no, I'm not sleepy." He scrutinized Burns' tense face. "You want to talk about something?"

His eyes darted to look directly into Smithers' for a fleeting moment before he turned them downward again. "Do you remember... anything about me?"

Smithers furrowed his brow in deep concentration. "I remember kissing you."

"Anything that I haven't already told you about?"

"I don't know..." Smithers sniffed back a tear. "I don't know... Whenever I try to remember you, I get a terrible, sinking feeling in my stomach, like I just got kicked in the gut."

"Come on, man, think! You've got to remember something!"

"I don't know," he said, clenching his eyes shut as another tear slipped out.

"You've been at my side for years. How could you not remember a thing about me? Are you deliberately forgetting?"

"No, Monty, I want to remember you! How could you think I wouldn't?"

"Never mind, I'm sure it's nothing."

"What is?"

"The day before the accident, I told you some regrettable things."

"But I – I didn't leave you, did I? I was still with you when the accident happened, right?"

"No, you didn't. And yes, you were."

"How – regrettable were the things you said to me?"

"Very." He crumpled forward a bit as he sighed. "You forgave me far too easily, as always. You even blamed yourself."

"What did you say?"

 _Smithers was dusting in Burns' study while Burns read at his desk. The desk lamp rattled slightly as Smithers dusted it. "Will you cut out that racket?" shouted Burns._

" _Sorry, sir." He dusted with the most delicate sweeping movements of the feather duster as he moved across the room. As he approached the fireplace mantle to dust the items on top, he tripped on the edge of the slightly raised base level of the fireplace, and the duster knocked over a vase, splitting it into its base and a few other shards._

 _Burns stood at his desk, palms flat on the desktop as he leaned angrily forward. "You clumsy oaf! Can't you do anything right?"_

" _I'm sorry, sir!"_

" _Put the base of the vase back on the mantle and get out of my sight! I don't want to see you again!"_

" _Sir, this piece is heavy, and the glass shards cut my hand up. If I could wait to clean it up until I got medical attention –"_

" _You should've thought of that before you stumbled."_

"I didn't mean it, Waylon." He looked up to the ceiling. "I was wrestling with some disconcerting thoughts, and I took it out on you."

"You still haven't told me what you said."

"I'd rather tell you what I should have said."

"Okay. Tell me that, then."

"There was nothing lacking in your performance. You consistently impress me, and I'm very satisfied. It's not your fault you couldn't get it up. I'm glad I can see you every day."

Smithers smiled nervously. "I'm sorry we had that... problem."

Burns put his finger over Smithers' lips. "Don't apologize. I was being an ass."

Smithers puckered his lips and kissed Burns' finger. "I forgive you."

"You don't even know what you're forgiving me for."

"No, but I can see you really mean it that you're sorry. I don't get the impression you're the kind of man who says 'sorry' very often."

"I never said, 'Sorry.'"

"But it's what you mean."

"Yes, it is."

"Ugh, I feel so dirty," said Smithers, wiping some grease off his forehead. "I haven't had a real shower in... I don't even remember."

"Then we'll get you into the bath." He aligned Smithers' wheelchair to the bed and helped him into it, then took him into the bathroom. Once close to the tub, Smithers turned the knob while Burns retrieved a sponge, a bar of soap, and some shampoo. As the hot water filled the tub, Burns undid Smithers' shirt buttons and then pulled it off him by the sleeves. He undid Smithers' pants buttons and pulled them off his pants, then did the same with his underwear. Sitting in a chair beside the bathtub, Burns first submerged Smithers' legs one by one, then wrapped his arms around Smithers' torso from behind and slid him into the tub, his back skidding against the porcelain. Burns took a nearby sponge and dipped it into the tub water, then began to scrub Smithers' shoulder.

"Mmm..." Smithers moaned, leaning his head against Monty's hand and the sponge. "That feels so good."

"I confess I feel a bit strange."

"Why's that?"

Burns rubbed a bar of soap on the back of Smithers' neck and then wet the sponge again. "Well, I'm never the one giving you a bath. You're always the one who scrubs and tends to me." He started scrubbing the side of Smithers' neck.

"You mean this is the first time you've given me a bath?"

"Yes."

"Surely we've taken one together, though."

Burns stopped moving the sponge. "Why would we have done that?"

"To have some fun."

Resuming his scrubbing with added vigor, Burns said, "Please, you're a grown man. What kind of fun could you possibly have in a bathtub?"

"Don't tell me you're too old to enjoy being splashed."

"With your filthy tub water? What a ridiculous notion." Burns rubbed his other shoulder with the soap and water in a more perfunctory manner. Smithers smiled deviously, then splashed water onto Burns' face. Or rather, he tried to. Most of the water sloshed out onto the tile floor, very little of it actually landing on Burns. "You've proven nothing, just spilled water onto the floor." He rubbed the soapy sponge back and forth over the back of Smithers' head, lathering up his hair.

"Oh!" Smithers cried out.

Burns withdrew his hand. "What is it? Did I hurt you?"

"It's..." He searched for the word. "Weird."

"Huh? Speak clearly, man!"

"That sponge feels like you're scraping my skull with... you know, that rough thing you use to build things? Make wood less rough?"

"Sandpaper."

"Yes, that's it."

"This is my softest sponge – no corners. I've never had problems with you using it on me."

"It hurts."

"Then how do you propose I wash your hair? With my hands?"

"We can try it."

"Very well." Burns gently rubbed shampoo along Smithers' scalp, gingerly avoiding his incision scars by his ears, then scooped up water in front of Smithers' chest and emptied it over his head, slowly washing away the suds. With the lightest of touches, he trailed his fingers over Smithers' head from his forehead to the nape of his neck.

"Mmm..." Smithers sank an inch into the bath water. "Your fingers are magical. Like those insects that go on the water, walking without falling in, not pushing down enough to fall in."

"Just how much of that pain medication have you been taking?"

"Not that much. I ache all over. I just, I still don't have my head together just yet."

"Your hair is clean now," said Burns, taking his hands off Smithers' forehead. He stood and retrieved a burgundy towel, then went back to Smithers and draped the towel over the back of his wheelchair. "When I give the signal, make your best effort to lift yourself." Burns leaned over the tub and brought his arms around Smithers, then braced himself. "One... two... now!" He heaved and Smithers pushed himself up, and he plopped into the wheelchair. Burns carefully dabbed at the water on his head, then along his chest, arms, and legs.

"What next?" 

"I'm going to get you in bed."

"Monty, I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet."

"It's too late," he said pushing Smithers toward the door. "I'm not going to attempt to clothe you here, and you need all the sleep you can get after that surgery."

"Oh, that's all you meant." Burns eyed him suspiciously but soon set the remark aside to focus on opening the door and getting Smithers into the hallway. "Wait," said Smithers, "you're going to wheel me through the house naked?"

"Bah! Nobody will see you but me." When they arrived in front of Smithers' room, Burns opened the door and pushed Smithers inside, stopping him at the side of the bed. "Let's get this over with," he said, cracking his knuckles in preparation. He closed his arms tightly around Smithers' waist, then lifted with his legs to elevate Smithers a couple inches off his seat, then heaved him in the direction of the mattress. As Smithers tumbled onto the bed, so did Burns, hands still clasped firmly around Smithers.

Smithers, of course, was still completely naked, and it didn't escape Burns' notice that Smithers had found their little tumble onto the bed to be stimulating. He quickly disengaged and rolled off the other side of the bed, then went rummaging through a bureau drawer. "What are you looking for?" said Smithers.

"Your evening robe," said Burns, face still buried in linens. "Aha!" He pulled out a fluffy robe, white with rose trim and satin lining, Smithers' initials 'W.J.S.' embroidered in shiny pink thread. He threw it on the bed beside Smithers, a moment later tossing a clean pair of Smithers' boxer shorts on top. "Excuse me while I dress into my own robe," he said, leaving the room.

He returned a few minutes later in a green robe with a purple pajama shirt and pants underneath and saw that Smithers had managed to get the wrong leg through his boxer shorts and sat helplessly trying to fix it. "Smithers, you adorable fool." Burns sat beside him on the bed and pulled the shorts off, then put them on the right way. He then pulled the robe over Smithers' arms, sleeve by sleeve, and then tied it loosely around his waist. "There," said Burns, sitting back a foot to admire his handiwork. He hadn't felt this sense of accomplishment since he'd learned to do things for himself when Smithers went on his vacation. He'd managed to keep his old chum clean and comfortable despite his own physical limitations. "Isn't that better?"

"Much better. Um, Monty?"

"Yes?"

"I hope this doesn't sound dumb to you, but..."

"Yes...?"

"Could you tell me a story? About us – the way we were."

"Just lie back, and I'll lull you to sleep with a story." He pulled the covers over Smithers and lay there next to him. "Once, there was a man who had given up on happiness. He sought cheap thrills like toying with employees and amassing energy monopolies, but after nearly eight decades, they didn't thrill him like they used to. Then he met an enthusiastic young go-getter who reminded him of why he was in business in the first place, and this young man rejuvenated his love of being a captain of industry. You didn't just save my life a few weeks ago. You made my life worth living again, decades ago. Thank you," he said, burying his head in Smithers' chest. "Thank you." He shed a few tears, and Smithers' robe eagerly accepted them.

Smithers held Burns closer to him, running his hand a few inches up and down Burns' spine, as much as he could muster. He kissed Burns' neck, only to hear him snoring. _His snoring is terribly cute._ Smithers kissed his cheek, then tucked his head between Burns' neck and shoulder. _Poor thing is exhausted. He's so light and frail. I wish he didn't have to exert himself like this to take care of me. Whatever happened to that nurse he hired?_

Smithers listened to Burns' inhalations and exhalations, slow and slight, but steady and soothing. _I wonder how I ended up with such an old man. I know I worked for him when I was younger. He is very charming, and – dare I say – sexy. He says he "snapped me up"_ _but does that mean he made the first move? I wonder what our first date was like! Did he sweep me off my feet with dinner and dancing? A moonlit stroll through the park? Or maybe just a quiet evening alone in his mansion?_

Those thoughts rolling through his mind, he drifted off to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Burns woke up to the chirping of birds outside. He felt his arm draped around something, and as he opened his eyes, he saw it was Smithers he had his arm around. _I must have fallen asleep after helping him into bed._ He peered over Smithers' shoulder, as during the night, Smithers had rolled over so that he was facing away from Burns. Smithers' face looked such a mess, from the patchy hair where it had been trimmed or shaven, to the scars from the incisions around his ears, to the scraggly stubble on his chin and to the look of utter exhaustion on his face, his jaw hanging open and his tongue lolling out while his glasses sat askew over his eyes, a stream of drool leading to a drying puddle on his pillow.

Smithers looked peculiarly elegant in his vulnerable state, almost like he was a model for a fashion advertisement carefully posed to look casually rough, but with lighting and composition that highlighted his beauty. "You poor devil," said Burns under his breath, hoping not to wake him as he removed Smithers' glasses and placed them on the nightstand. He sat up in the bed, preparing to leave the room and start his day, when he felt Smithers rolling his knuckles around his lower spine. "Oh!"

Smithers stilled his hand suddenly. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, no. It feels heavenly." Burns whimpered as he resumed, and then his whimper turned into a moan. "Oh... Waylon, that's so good. Wait," he said as he removed his robe, revealing his purple pajamas underneath. "Now try." Smithers resumed, and Burns gradually lay back on his side. "Mm..."

"I figured your back would be sore after yesterday. Thanks a lot for helping me."

"It's magnanimous of you to recognize my efforts."

"It's the least I could do." He continued rubbing Burns' back with the back of his hand, a simple rotation of his wrist not exerting much force, but for Burns' sore muscles encased in thin skin, it was like an experienced baker kneading a soft and yielding dough. With his other hand, Smithers reached for the red call button and pressed it, then said, "I'd like a croque monsieur and Eggs Benedict with a glass of orange juice for breakfast," rolling his knuckles over Burns' back as he spoke.

Burns basked in Smithers' soothing touch, but after a few minutes, he turned around. "Isn't your hand sore?"

"Yes, but it's doing better. Besides, I didn't break my left hand, just my right. I may have a weak grip, but I can still make you feel better."

Burns turned and took Smithers' left hand into his to massage it, swirling his thumb around the muscle over each metacarpal. His eyelids drooped as he fell into a trance-like state, smiling in satisfaction. "I never understood why you were always so eager to massage me when I requested it. Now I do."

"Did you ever hear from the nurse who didn't show up?"

"No, but if I do, he's going to hear an earful from me. No one so derelict in his duty is fit to care for you." The phone rang. "Ah! That must be our neglectful nurse, now." He picked up the phone. "Is this the irresponsible oaf of a nurse who failed to arrive to care for Smithers?"

"No, this is his mother," said Mrs. Smithers on the other side of the line.

"Mrs. Smithers! Uh, disregard that bit about you being an 'irresponsible oaf.' So, how are you?"

"The nurse didn't show up? Is he okay?"

"I don't give a damn about how he is."

"Then why did you agree to take care of him?"

"What? I meant I don't give a damn about the nurse. Waylon is fine."

"Oh, okay. Good, good. May I speak to him?"

"Why, yes, here's the phone. It's your mother," he said, handing the phone to Smithers.

Smithers mouthed, "I know that," then took the phone and held it against his ear. "Hello, mother. Is there any particular reason you called the landline instead of my cell phone?"

"I couldn't get through to you on it."

Smithers checked his phone and noticed that his phone was off. "Hm. I don't remember turning off my phone..."

"Oh," said Burns, "I did that. I didn't want anything to disturb your rest."

"Monty says he turned it off so I could sleep well." He smiled as he looked into Burns' eyes.

Burns smiled back as he got up to leave the room, saying, "I'm going to make a call to hire another nurse," as he left.

Mrs. Smithers said, "So he's taking good care of you?"

"Yes, he's been very thoughtful."

"Really? You haven't taken too many pain pills, have you?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"It's just, the day before the accident, you called me crying because of some callous things he said about you."

"Oh, yeah, Monty explained about that. He admitted he was wrong and gave me a very nice apology."

"That's not a code word for 'orgasm,' is it?"

"No, Mom," he said, face flustered.

"Okay, because I don't need to know everything."

"I promise I'll keep the details on a need-to-know basis."

"I'm sorry if I'm still awkward about this, but apart from all the reasons you'd expect me to feel awkward about your relationship, there's the fact that you never told me your relationship was anything but platonic."

"I didn't?"

"No, you swore up and down that although you were in love with him, he didn't return your feelings. You told me how crushed you were, how you were still pining for him after all these years and wished you could move on, how he rarely showed you courtesy. That's why I have a hard time buying that he's suddenly become the doting, wonderful partner he seems like now."

"You know, Julio said something like that when he visited me in the hospital. I told him about Monty and me, and he said something like, 'I knew it! You always said nothing happened between you two, but I was always sure you were lying.' I apparently left him for Monty. I don't understand why everyone seems to think he's so cruel – he's been incredibly sweet and supportive, and he adores me."

"I can only go by what you've told me and what I've read in the papers. But Waylon, listen carefully. He might just be on good behavior since you're still recovering. Sometimes men will play games like that to keep you, then treat you like dirt once you've fallen under their spell. A man I was going with before I met your father did that – when I contracted polio, he was sweetness and sunshine, but once I got better, he pushed me around and barked orders and insults at me. It's very good that I didn't stay with him, because not only would I have been miserable with him, I wouldn't have met your father and had you."

"Mom...I know you're concerned and want what's best for me, but I can't believe he's not being sincere. You can't fake the love I saw in his eyes."

"You can see love in anyone's eyes if you squint enough. I've interacted plenty with Mr. Burns when your father was alive, and your father said as much about him – he's a damaged soul. He may love you, and yes, love for you is what I saw in his eyes, too, at the hospital, but that won't stop him from being cruel when he doesn't know how to handle that feeling. His love for you may be genuine, but so is his inclination to be cruel. Maybe you haven't seen it yet, but it's there, and it's as much a part of him as a turkey is a part of Thanksgiving."

"I wonder why I lied about our relationship."

"He is active in the Republican Party, and surely some of his snobby country club friends would disapprove. You've always been extremely devoted to him, and I can believe you'd lie about damn near anything to anyone to protect his reputation."

"But why would I keep crying to you that he'd broken my heart? Couldn't I just say I'm not interested in him?"

"Oh, honey..." said Mrs. Smithers with a chuckle. "Nobody would believe that." Her voice turned serious. "Now, I need to be clear. You didn't talk to me about him much. You knew how I felt about it, and we both avoided the subject as much as possible. The day before the accident was the first time you'd called me to talk about him in years. You told me there had been other times, though."

"How did you feel about us?"

"I don't know what good it would do to go over it all now..."

"No, Mom. I want to know. I want to remember my own life."

She sighed. "Okay, sweetie. I'll tell you. I did not like it one bit, from the day you told me you were in love with him to the day you got hit by that car. First, I never liked Mr. Burns. I didn't like him when I met him, before you were even a gleam in my eye, and I didn't like him when you became his intern, and I didn't like him when you became Employee of the Month for the 200th time. Second, I've always thought he was much too old for you. And third... yes, it bothered me that he's a man. I wanted you to have a wife and kids one day and the chance to build a life like the one your father missed out on when he passed. I can accept now that you have different dreams for yourself, but it was not so easy then."

"And how do you feel about us now?"

"I'm cautiously optimistic. I did see love in Monty's eyes, and I'm glad he's treated you well so far since you came home from the hospital. You loved him so much, and I hope you get your memories of him back. Honey, I _want_ this to work out for you. When I caution you, I just want you to be prepared for the worst so you don't set yourself up for a brutal disappointment in case it doesn't work out."

"I understand you mean well. I'm cautious, too – he's charmed the pants off me, but I still hardly know him. It's only been a few weeks, and that first week I was really out of it most of the time."

"Good. I knew I could count on you to be sensible."

"I can't wait to find out more about him. Him and me." A servant wheeled a cart with Smithers' breakfast on it to the side of the bed where Smithers sat, then handed him the breakfast tray and left. "My breakfast just got here."

"Well, I won't keep you waiting, then. Keep in touch, okay?"

"I will, Mom."

"I love you, Waylon."

"I love you, too, Mom."

As he ended the call, Burns walked inside with a tray of oatmeal sprinkled with brown sugar and topped with five fresh cranberries and a glass of apple juice. He grabbed some pill bottles from the nightstand and handed them to Smithers. "Did you have a nice chat with your mater?"

"I...what? Oh, yeah."

"Good," he said, sitting in a chair beside Smithers and setting his tray on his lap.

"That can't be comfortable for you. Come on, sit up here," he said, patting the soft, thick blankets beside him, his hand leaving the slightest imprint in the marshmallowy mattress.

"It does look comfortable." He picked up his tray and walked to the other side of the bed, set his tray on the bed, and climbed on top. He shivered, and Smithers pulled the blanket over his legs and chest. "Thank you," he said, then pulled his tray close enough to eat from it.

"No problem." Burns had to open the pill bottle caps, but Smithers did his best to hold his food himself, and he was mostly successful, though his robe got quickly stained with the debris of bread crumbs and hollandaise sauce. His grip was still too weak to hold up his juice glass, so Burns held it up to his lips at his request. Burns enjoyed his oatmeal between reminiscing about old times with Smithers and wiping Smithers' face with a napkin. "Please, tell me more about us, our relationship..."

"You were always a very efficient employee... and a very dear friend. You've been my constant companion. It's difficult to believe it took me so long to realize how much you matter to me. I am used to my employees and friends being disposable, mere means to an end. But with you..." He cracked an irrepressible smile. "With you, it all makes sense."

"What all makes sense?"

"Why a man would sacrifice himself for the sake of another. I never understood that before." He looked into Smithers' eyes. "I can't begin to tell you how grateful I am that you didn't have to forfeit your life to save mine."

"That's okay. You don't need to tell me." Smithers leaned over and hugged him, his cheek on Burns' shoulder. Burns stiffened, then relaxed and brought his arm around Smithers, hugging him back. "I already have a pretty good idea."

"I hired a new nurse to help take care of you. He should be here in the next fifteen minutes," said Burns, gently patting Smithers' back as he withdrew from the hug.

"Good. I hate seeing you strain yourself trying to help me."

"Yes, well, I won't have to for much longer." He got out of bed and said, "You usually feed the hounds at this hour. I've had other servants handle the feeding these last few weeks, but I still like to go out to play with them. Would you like to accompany me?"

"Yes, I'd like that a lot."

"Well, then, sit up," he said, pulling up Smithers' wheelchair and lending him a hand down from the bed and into the chair. He got behind Smithers and pushed him swiftly out of the room and down the halls until they got to the front door.

Burns opened the door, then guided Smithers down the ramp and to the side, near where the hounds were eating their breakfast. One of them had taken notice of Smithers, ear perked up, and the others soon took his cue and looked at them. The first dogs started for them, and the rest soon followed, bounding to greet Smithers, dogs on all sides of his wheelchair standing on their hind legs and pawing at him, licking his hands and face. Smithers put his hands over the backs of some of the dogs' heads while Burns petted a couple of the other dogs.

One of the dogs standing behind Smithers' shoulder licked his face, and Smithers said, "Hello, Shadow." He scratched behind the ears of a couple of the dogs in front of him. "Oh, Winston, Gerhardt, Slasher, Vernon..."

Burns' face fell. "You recognized them."

"I did, didn't I?" said Smithers, his face brightening. "What's wrong, Monty? Isn't that good?"

"Yes, I suppose."

"You suppose?"

"Do I have to spell it out for you? Would you have remembered me if I'd leaned over your hospital bed, sniffing your hand and licking your crotch?" Burns furrowed his brow. "I don't think that's exactly what I meant to say."

"Maybe I would've," said Smithers with a smile. His jaw slackened, screwing up the smile. "But no, Monty, no, don't be sad," he said, reaching for Burns' elbow. "I wouldn't have recognized them back at the hospital. But being with you here is helping jog my memory. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have recognized the dogs, I'm sure I wouldn't."

"Do you mean to say you remember me now?"

Smithers looked downward to his chest, then drifted his eyes slowly upward to gaze into Burns'. "I remember you looking at me like that." He closed his eyes, squinting them shut in forced reminiscence. He opened them again to look into Burns' eyes. "I was in the hospital, and..."

"Blast it, man! I'm asking whether you can remember me from before the accident."

"I think I am. It was a different time I was in the hospital."

"Tell me what you remember."

"I was..." He tightened his lips. "No. I wasn't in the hospital. I was in a... a castle?"

"You must have been dreaming."

"I don't think I was. I was unconscious, and I woke up to you kissing me."

"You were dreaming."

"No, no, I'm sure. You were wearing a, an – what's it called, someone who flies a plane?"

"An aviator?"

"An aviator's jacket. You had saved my life."

Burns' eyes widened in realization. "You were awake for that?"

"Oh, yeah."

"It was a desperate time. I didn't know whether you would live or die."

"Do you only kiss me in desperate times?"

"Smithers! What kind of question is that?"

"You're right. I should know better than that."

A car pulled up front, and a man in his early thirties with dirty blond hair wearing nursing scrubs with a big red and white backpack around his back approached the men. The hounds prepared to pounce, but Burns gave the signal for them to heel. "You must be the nurse I called for."

"Yes, I'm Nurse Jason Richards. You can call me Jason. You must be Mr. Smithers. I'll be glad to assist you, sir," he said, reaching out to shake Burns' hand.

"No, you nincompoop!" Burns grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him to face Smithers. " _He's_ Smithers. You are to assist him. Do whatever he tells you."

"Sure thing, Mr. Burns!" He turned to Smithers. "Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable, Mr. Smithers?"

"Yeah, if you could get me a seat cushion...?"

"Right away, sir," he said, then took off his backpack and unzipped it, rummaging through several medical kits and comfort items such as electric blankets, heating and ice packs, and bandages before getting to a green seat cushion. "Here you go," he said, lifting one of Smithers' legs from underneath and sliding the cushion under. "Is that better?"

"Yes, thank you." Burns rolled his eyes at Smithers' expression of gratitude, and Smithers smiled at his predictable response.

"I'll try to stay close by but out of your way, and you can press this button," he said, furnishing Smithers what looked like a remote with a big, round red button at one end, "and I'll get to you in a jiffy. It has GPS so I'll be able to locate you if you're unable to communicate where you are. I'll be inside checking your bathroom set-up for safety measures. Call me if you need me," he said, then went inside.

"He seems good," said Smithers. "At the hospital, sometimes I became almost convinced the nurse call buttons in the hospital were just there for show with how long it took to get a response."

The nurse helped Smithers with his lunch of a burger and fries and assisted him with toileting and changing his clothes. Burns, standing by while another man took charge of Smithers' intimate care and was at the receiving end of Smithers' grateful smiles, felt a curious sense of conflict. _I never wanted to assume the physical burden of caring for Smithers, but the way he smiled at me... The way he now smiles at that smug young nurse... I never thought I could miss something like a smile so much._

Burns stood by the door to Smithers' room that evening as he watched the nurse put him to bed. "There you go," said the nurse.

"Thank you, Jason," said Smithers.

"I'll get some more water for you to take your medication with."

As he left the room, Burns said, "Well, I suppose I should be getting off to bed now, too. I have work in the morning, and I have to get up early."

"Aw, couldn't you just take a vacation this week? You are the boss, after all."

"Yes, and as the boss, I need to be there to keep those slackers and loafers from goofing off."

"I understand."

"Goodnight, Waylon. Have pleasant dreams."

"Goodnight, Monty. Sleep well."

Burns closed the door and went to his room just across the hall, spotting his immaculately made bed with Bobo sitting undisturbed between the pillows. "Ah, Bobo!" He had forgotten that he had slept without Bobo in his clutches the previous night. He had slept embracing Bobo almost every night since he'd gotten him back, and the nights when he hadn't for whatever reason – if he slept somewhere unusual, or Bobo needed cleaning – he had sorely missed his stuffed companion.

But not the previous night. The previous night, he'd had Smithers in his embrace, and he'd proven a wholly adequate substitute for his precious stuffed teddy bear. He got under the covers, tucking himself in while thinking of how Smithers would normally fluff his pillows, tuck the covers around his shoulders, hand him Bobo, and make him feel truly worthy of tender loving care. He held Bobo tightly against his chest, but this night Bobo felt too small for his arms. He ended up falling asleep with one arm curled around Bobo and his other arm outstretched over the other side of the bed, searching for someone to cuddle with.


	7. Chapter 7

Eternal Sunshine of the Smithers Mind

Chapter 7

The next morning, Smithers awoke to an empty bed. He tried again in vain to read the time off his phone, his vision still blurry from not wearing glasses. He pressed the servants' call button. "Hello? What time is it?"

"It's 12:46 p.m., sir," said a man, the same one as before, he thought. "Is there anything you want?"

"Yes, three eggs, sunny side up, and a plate of hash browns."

"And to drink?"

"A glass of orange juice."

"Right away, sir." Smithers liked the ring of that – he could get used to people calling him "sir," and he quickly was getting used to it.

His breakfast arrived shortly after noon, and Nurse Jason helped him drink his juice, though he mostly had success in eating his eggs and potatoes. Just as he finished eating, his phone started the Facetime ring. When he picked up the phone, he saw it was Burns calling him. "Oh, it's Monty!" He accepted the call and held the phone up to his face. "Hi, Monty. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine. I finished my lunch, and I thought I would check up on you."

"I just finished my breakfast."

"At this hour?" he chided teasingly. "What did you have?"

"Three fried eggs and hash browns."

"If you keep eating like this, you'll eat me out of house and home," he said, humming a giggle.

"I thought you'd be happy to have me eat you out at home."

Burns cocked an eyebrow in confusion, and then his face went white, except his cheeks, which turned an ever rosier pink. "Smithers!" He quickly rubbed the back of his neck, rapidly repeating the motion. "You'll have to learn not to joke like that if you want to return to work. Th-that kind of talk isn't acceptable in the workplace."

"But I'm not at the workplace now, am I?" He picked up a stray strand of fried potato off his plate and held it between his face and the camera, then licked it seductively. "Are you sure you don't want to come home early? I'm still hungry," he said, popping the piece of potato into his mouth and making a show of moaning in savor.

"Quit it now, before the phone sexting police come to carry you away!"

Smithers laughed at the paranoid notion. "Monty, there aren't any 'phone sexting' police. I remember that much."

"You really shouldn't – you don't want to be putting ideas in people's heads."

"Relax, I wouldn't talk like that with anyone but you."

"Waylon, you're missing the –"

"Your cheeks are as red as tomatoes," he said bemusedly. "Aw, honey, I won't embarrass you anymore."

"Then don't call me 'honey'!"

"Okay, Monty B. Get it, like 'honeybee' but with your name?" He chuckled, but slowly stopped as he saw Burns was not so amused. "Okay, then."

"Yes, well, I'll see you when I get home in a few hours. Take care, and don't forget to rest up! I need you back on your feet as soon as you're able."

"I will. Thanks for calling me. You're my sunshine on a rainy day."

"Yes, well, you too." He ended the call. "Those pain meds must be getting to his head."

Burns left his office at five o'clock for his home, and when he opened the door, he saw Smithers sitting in his wheelchair at the entrance, facing him with a plate holding a pair of chocolate cupcakes, each decorated with the classic atomic symbol in blue frosting, a bit wiggly and inelegantly applied, on top of the chocolate frosting. "I frosted them myself after my physical therapy."

"You did well, considering you couldn't even wipe yourself two days ago." Burns raised his eyebrow. "You, ah, did clean your hands before decorating these, didn't you?"

"Yes, Monty, of course!" he said playfully.

"Good, good, then," he said, taking a cupcake and sitting at a nearby chair.

"I had the servants get a glass of milk ready for you. It's on the coffee table there," he said, pointing to it and wheeling himself closer.

Burns took a bite, then sipped his milk. "It's good," he said. "So, this is how you occupied your time without me?"

"Yes, along with the physical therapy. I also called my mother again. She worries about me, but I keep telling her not to worry, because you take such good care of me."

"Yes, well, she loves you. It's her prerogative to worry about you."

"Did you miss me?"

Burns sighed, then looked wearily to Smithers. "Yes, I missed you."

"I missed you, too."

"I'm so tired. You wouldn't believe what morons I have working under me," he said, putting his feet up on an ottoman and kicking off his shoes, revealing his royal purple socks as he flexed his toes. Smithers wheeled himself even closer and began to rub one of Burns' feet with his good hand. "Mmm..."

"You know, I'd have an easier time rubbing your feet if I didn't have to lean over to get to them. If you put your feet on my lap, it'd be a lot easier."

"Hm? Oh, yes." He turned to face Smithers, and he put his feet on Smithers' lap. Smithers resumed rubbing his foot, and Burns closed his eyes and leaned his head back. "Oh, _yes_ , that's wonderful." After a few minutes, he shifted his feet, directing Smithers to give attention to his other one. "You have a marvelous touch."

"You do, too," he said, smiling in reminiscence of Burns' fingers running across his hair in the bath.

They dined side by side again at the long table of the dining hall that evening, Burns helping Smithers cut his steak into pieces and lift his glass. When they had finished their dinner and their conversation had wound down, Smithers said, "I guess we should get ready for my bath, now."

" _We?_ What do you think I hired that nurse for?"

"He can help me get out of my clothes and into the bath, but I thought you would still help me wash my hair."

"And why would you think that?"

"Because I don't think anyone could do it as gently as you did."

"Very well. I'll help you bathe."

Smithers called Nurse Jason, and they went to the bathroom, Nurse Jason helping Smithers disrobe as Burns drew the bath, then Jason helped him inside the tub. Smithers dismissed Jason, then felt himself melt as he looked tenderly into Burns' eyes, and when Burns started rubbing the bar of soap around his back and shoulder, he melted even more. As Burns rubbed the soap under his arms and across his chest, his gaze lingered on Smithers' chest and sometimes strayed lower, and Smithers said, "Enjoying the sights?"

Burns sheepishly said, "You _are_ easy on the eyes," as he submerged Smithers' chest and arms, then rubbed the soap off. "Now, close your eyes," he said, as he squirted some shampoo in the palm of his hand, then gingerly worked it through the short hair down the middle of Smithers' head. He cupped water in his hands, then poured it over the top of Smithers' head a few times, then, running his fingers down Smithers' head as the shampoo washed out of his hair, his spindly fingers reaching past his hair and tickling the nape of Smithers' neck.

"This must be the best feeling in the world."

"I can think of something better," said Burns, running his fingers through Smithers' hair a final time.

"That reminds me..." said Smithers, biting the tip of his tongue for a second as he considered the phrasing of his question. "With us, who... who was top, and who was bottom?"

"Well, of course I've always been on top."

"Sounds good to me."

"Yes, you were always quite happy to be below me, and I quite happy to have you underneath me. You do an excellent job."

"I think I'm ready to... resume my job duties."

"Oh, nonsense! With your hands like that? Give it another week."

"Okay, Monty."

Burns rubbed the towel around Smithers' hair, and they summoned Nurse Jason to help him out of the bath and into his wheelchair and robe. Jason said, "Did you have a nice bath, sir?"

"Oh, yes. Very nice," he said, looking over at Burns.

"Good to hear."

Nurse Jason brought him to his bed and helped him on top of it. He reached for the covers to pull over him, but Burns stopped him. "I'll do that," said Burns, taking the blanket into his hands and pulling it over Smithers' chest. Jason gave Smithers his medications and helped him sip water to swallow them. "You are dismissed," said Burns to the nurse, and he left them alone.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous of him."

"That's preposterous. What have I to be jealous of?"

"Well, he does spend time with me up close."

"Please, you make it sound like something sordid."

"It's nothing like that, but you seem awfully keen to keep us apart whenever possible."

"You have an active imagination."

"I think it's you who has an active imagination, to think even a little bit there's anything not... chaste between us."

"Yes, I suppose that is all in my head."

Smithers took Burns' hand in his and waited until they locked eyes to say, "Goodnight, Monty."

Burns stared into his eyes, curling his fingers around the back of Smithers' hand and dragging back, then repeating the motion a few more times as he said, "Goodnight, Waylon," then let his hand slip away as he headed for the door.

"No kiss goodnight?"

Burns rolled his eyes and said under his breath, "It's not fair of you to play head games with me like that." He retired to his bed and snuggled Bobo in his right arm while his left arm stretched out to the empty side of the bed, his fingers digging into satin sheets, wanting someone to hold. He thrashed around under the covers and flipped himself onto his other side, but he couldn't find comfort this way, either. What was Smithers' game, anyway? What was his objective, making dirty suggestions over the phone, then teasing him in the bath, then telling him there was nothing unchaste about any of it? Did he just get off on making him sweat? _No, Smithers wouldn't toy with me like that. Not the Smithers I know._

 _But he's not the Smithers you know._ Except he did behave very much like he expected Smithers to, most of the time. _He can't be completely himself, though. He doesn't even remember who I am._ He flipped himself onto his back and dug the fingers of both of his hands into the blankets, an image of Smithers in the bath surfacing as he closed his eyes again. _Why do I find him so suddenly compelling? Ever since the week before his accident... When we were lounging by the fire..._

 _Smithers sipped from his glass of brandy in a red armchair beside Burns."Is this how you thought your life would turn out?"_

" _What are you prattling on about, Smithers?" It unnerved Burns that Smithers had changed the subject so abruptly from lighthearted chatter about their Saturday of leisure._

" _I mean, when you were five years old, you must've had some idea of what you wanted to do when you grew up. Something tells me it wasn't to run a nuclear power plant."_

" _I always knew I would run a business, maintain and expand the family wealth."_

" _Is that what you really wanted, though? I know you're happy being in charge now, but when you were five, what did you dream about then?"_

 _Burns swirled his brandy and chuckled as he stared into the vortex. "You would laugh if I told you."_

" _No, I wouldn't." He set his brandy down on the end table beside him and stretched his arm over the armrest so his hand hung near Burns', stopping short of taking his hand. "Monty, you know me better than that."_

" _Well..." Burns set his brandy down on the same table besides Smithers' glass. "My fondest wish has always been for one person to truly love me."_

 _Smithers' lips wobbled a bit, as though he were struggling to say something. "I wish and dream and pray for the same thing every single night. Sometimes, that hope is all that keeps me going."_

" _What makes you think you know so much about my longing?"_

" _N-nothing, sir. I wish you knew more about my longing, though."_

" _You may be single, but your parents loved you. I never had even that. My parents shed no tears when I left them, and when I came back to visit, I overheard them say they preferred me gone before they knew I was there. Loving parents indeed. The women I've fallen for have been indifferent at best, even when we were betrothed. Nobody ever gave a damn about me, only my money. And yet, without it, I couldn't even exact retribution."_

" _Oh, Monty..." Smithers reached over his chair to hug Burns, who began to cry. "They don't deserve you."_

 _Burns gratefully welcomed Smithers into his frail arms as he tried to regain his composure but still began blubbering as he collapsed into Smithers' arms. "Who cares what they deserve? I'm the one who's left alone. I just... want..."_

 _Smithers held him tighter, some tears dripping out of his eyes as he shut them and onto Burns' cheek, his heart rended by Burns' anguish. After some minutes hunched over in this awkward position, Smithers said, "Do you want to lie down?" At Burns' nod, Smithers stood and scooped him up and carried him to a nearby burgundy settee, then knelt at his side, stroking his forehead down to his sideburns and behind his ears. "You know, I'll always be here for you."_

" _Oh, shut up," he said, turning his head away and burying his face into the cushions. He mumbled, "Stop fishing for a raise."_

" _No, sir, that's not what I'm after, at all." He gently turned Burns by his nearest shoulder to face him. "Monty, I care more about you than you'll ever know, and all those other people who've spurned you – to hell with them! You're not missing anything. As far as I'm concerned, you've been dodging bullets."_

" _Do you believe there's someone out there for me?"_

 _He absentmindedly stroked Burns' shoulder. "I believe that with all my heart. If I didn't, I don't know how I'd get out of bed every morning." When Smithers' fingers grazed his neck just above his collarbone, Burns let out a short giggle. Smithers brushed his fingers against the same spot again, eliciting the same giggle. "You have the most infectious laughter, sir," said Smithers, who couldn't help but smile when he heard Burns' laugh._

 _Burns pursed his lips. "Don't tell me you're going to –"_

 _Smithers answered by tickling behind both of his ears, then moving down his neck to his chest and belly, taking immense satisfaction from the unabashed joy of the giggling Monty Burns who lay writhing in pleasure before him, playfully pleading for him to stop only to look at him expectantly when he did._

" _Oh! Waylon... You're killing me..." Smithers stopped tickling him, allowing him a moment to catch his breath. Burns stared into his eyes and smiled. "Waylon..." He leaned forward and kissed his lips, a playful peck lasting just a second but feeling as natural and nonchalant as a kiss shared between an old married couple. "I believe... I believe..."_

 _Smithers stroked his cheek, his eyelids lowered as he gazed into Burns' eyes, his cheeks burning a bright red. "Yes?"_

" _I believe... I've had too much wine. Smithers, help me to bed."_

" _Oh. Yes, sir."_

Burns snapped his eyes open from his reminiscence. "Good heavens! Smithers, I believe..." He stood, set Bobo gently against his pillow, then left his room and opened Smithers' door a crack to peer into the darkened room at the sleeping Smithers. "I believe I'm in love with you."

 _When the hell did this happen? Sure, there have been times I've noticed him and had a passing unchaste thought, but I haven't felt this kind of heat from someone since I was a handsome young man myself. Then why did he tell me it's all in my head? Is he trying to make me crazy? Well, two can play at that game._

He tip-toed inside, leaving the door open a crack, casting a sliver of yellow light over Smithers' cheek and across his blanketed leg. Burns sneaked to the other side of the bed and slipped under the covers.

Smithers fluttered his eyes open, and just as he said, "Monty...?" Burns hooked his arm around Smithers' and kissed his cheek.

"Goodnight, Waylon," he whispered in his ear. Smithers smiled, and Burns whispered into his ear, "Are you still hungry?"

"Am I what?" He processed the question, then said, "I could go for a BLT."

"What about a Monty?"

Smithers furrowed his brow, then grinned. "I'm hungry for you any time of day or night."

"Good, then," he said, reaching his hand down Smithers' robe to feel his chest. "Tell me exactly what you want, again," he said, surreptitiously reaching around Smithers' back with his other hand.

"I want you, Monty," he said, breathing heavily.

"You want two Monte Cristos, sir?" said a woman on the other end of the call button Burns was holding by Smithers' jaw.

"What?" said Smithers, and Burns burst into laughter.

"Sir?" said the woman on the line.

Smithers pressed the button and said, "Never mind," then released the button and set it back on the nightstand. "What is going on?"

"Strictly a platonic prank, my dear friend."

"Ugh. You got me."

Burns cuddled up against him, his right arm looped around Smithers' left arm while Burns' left arm held firm around Smithers' waist, and they soon fell asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The days passed in much the same way, Burns coming home from work and spending time with Smithers, conversing about their days, sharing their amusements as well as their frustrations, playing with the hounds in the morning and falling asleep in each other's arms at nights. Smithers soon learned that any teasing innuendo would earn him another "platonic prank" of Burns teasing him and the obscure Victorian euphemistic equivalent of calling "no homo." Sometimes he indulged for the momentary close contact it would earn him, while at other times, he would fight the temptation, afraid his heart couldn't take the stress of being brought so close to the edge.

That Friday night, Smithers indulged himself.

During his bath, as Burns rubbed soap on his face, Smithers said, "Haven't you been neglecting something these last few days you've bathed me?"

"I can't imagine what."

"You never soap up my legs."

"Very well," he said, scrubbing his legs from ankle to mid-thigh with the bar of soap. "There. Are you happy?"

"What about the rest of my legs?" Burns silently brought the soap bar and carefully glided it across the tops of his legs, but the soap slipped out of his grasp. After they stared into each other's eyes for a moment, nervous, Smithers said, "Aren't you going to get it?"

"Oh, no, I'm not about to tousle your tallywags just to retrieve a bar of soap."

Smithers laughed at his colorful phrasing and picked up the bar of soap himself. "You can 'tousle my tallywags' anytime you want."

"You keep talking like that, and you risk my intemerate affection for you yielding to baser desires."

"I'd like that... I think."

"What do you know? You've been brain-damaged."

"I know my thinking is a little slower, but I think I'm mostly who I was before."

"You don't even know who _I_ was before. How could you know who _you_ were before?"

"But I like who you've been in the last few weeks, and clearly I cared deeply for you before, or we wouldn't be here. And I want to remember who you were before, too."

Burns' eyes softened. "Waylon..."

"I'd prefer if you left now. Jason will get me to my room."

"Okay, Waylon. I'll go now." He left for his room, where he curled up on his bed, holding Bobo tightly against his chest, his fingers running along the back of his teddy's fuzzy head. He heard Nurse Jason wheel Smithers to the adjacent room.

"Okay, Mr. Smithers," said Jason, "Lift your arms up," he said as he began removing Smithers' robe. "Now your boxers. Here you go."

Burns doubled his pillow over his ear. He knew it was absurd to think there was any hanky-panky going on between Smithers and his nurse, but his mind couldn't help but race to the possibility. _After all, he's much younger and fitter than I... Smithers was right, this_ is _all in my imagination. He was only joking with me, after all. Teasing me, toying with me..._ There was a knock at his bedroom door that was ajar. "Come in," he said, lifting the pillow off his ear. Nurse Jason entered. "Oh. It's you."

"Mr. Smithers asked that you come in to see him."

Burns' eyes brightened, and he rose from his bed and approached the door, which was already open a crack. "Waylon?" he called out timidly. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, Monty."

"Are you sure I'm not keeping you from Jason?" said Burns with more than a whiff of jealousy.

"Don't be silly. He's just my nurse." Smithers' eyes widened in worry. "You do believe me, right?" Seeing Burns was biting his lower lip uncertainly, Smithers said, "You have nothing to worry about. You're the only man in my life. I can already tell how much you care about me in just these last few weeks."

"You, eh, can?"

"Yes, I can. I wouldn't throw away decades of loyalty to you for some meaningless fling. Even if I don't remember most of those decades." Burns sniffled back a tear. "What's the matter?"

"What the devil do you _think_ is the matter? You scarcely remember a thing about me. If _you_ don't remember me, who will?"

"I'm sure I'll get my memories back. Just yesterday, I remembered the time we watched the meteor shower together, didn't I?"

"Well, yes."

"And I remembered the time we released the hounds on that church group, right?"

"Yes..."

"And that's just this week. Give it more time."

"How much more time do I even have left to give? I'm no spring chicken, you know."

"I know, it's hard as hell for me, too. I want to know everything about us and our life, but unfortunately, you can't expedite memories like a FedEx package."

Burns wiped a tear away from his cheek. "You sound more like yourself all the time."

Smithers held him close, stroking along his spine. "I feel more like myself all the time. Whenever I'm with you..."

Burns tucked his head against Smithers' shoulder. "Then I shall stay with you until you feel back to to your normal self all the time." They fell asleep, lulled by the rise and fall of each other's chest.

* * *

Smithers awoke to the buzzing of Burns' phone alarm and groaned. Burns continued to snore, his drool soaking into the fabric over Smithers' shoulder, and Smithers nudged his shoulder. "Monty."

"Oh, what is it?" said Burns, eyes still firmly shut.

"Your alarm."

"Oh, that dratted appliance." He reached blindly for his phone, eventually finding it between his fingers and disarming the alarm. He rolled back toward Smithers and quickly went back to snoring into his shoulder.

The next time Smithers opened his eyes, the room was substantially brighter, illuminated by sunlight streaming through the window. He felt Burns' cheek against his and kissed the corner of his lip. "Monty?"

In a flat, irritable voice, he said, "What?"

"Aren't you late for work? It's..." He reached for his own phone and held it an inch from his face. "It's 9:15."

"Monty Burns is never late for work," he said, rolling onto his back and yawning. "He takes a personal day and keeps the drones busy with the mere threat I might walk in on them."

Smithers rested his eyes and fell back to sleep. When he opened them again, he saw that Burns had some photo albums spread across the bed. "I really need to use the bathroom." He pressed the call button for Nurse Jason, who appeared within a few seconds to help him into his wheelchair and then to the bathroom. When he returned, Nurse Jason helped him onto the bed, and Burns pulled a blanket over his legs and torso. "I'm glad you decided to stay home with me. What time is it, anyway?"

"It's 1:38," said Burns, looking at a nearby clock.

"My God, I really slept in."

"Enjoy it while it lasts. Once you've recovered, I won't tolerate such shenanigans from you." Burns' brow softened as he looked into Smithers' eyes, realizing how easily either of them could have perished in the accident. "The plant is a mess without you. It's my top priority to help you recover your memories and get you back on your feet."

"That's why you have the photo albums here."

"Yes, precisely." He opened one of the photo albums and pointed to a picture of Smithers pulling Burns along in a rickshaw. "See, here we are in the Springfield Marathon. And here's one of us at Halloween," he said, pointing to a picture of Burns using Smithers as a human shield against a volley of rotten eggs thrown by local hooligans. "And oh, look, there's one of you in the plant production of the H.M.S. Pinafore. And there you are feeding my tortoise, Sheldon." He flipped the page. "And there you are... getting stitches at the hospital." In the photo, Smithers sat on the hospital bed with a bloody finger. "Hm. No wonder you two didn't get along." He flipped through the pages, then pointed to a press photo of Smithers looking pale and disheveled, his bow tie untied and hanging loose around his collar. "And here you are being arrested for shooting me."

Smithers raised his eyebrows, his chest sinking inward. "I shot you?" he said with a gasp.

Burns said, "No," with a chortle. "No, you didn't shoot me. It was that Simpson baby who shot me."

Smithers breathed a long sigh of relief. "Thank God. Not that you were shot, but I couldn't imagine hurting you." He stroked the back of Burns' hand.

Burns' pupils fixed on Smithers' hand. "You're sounding more and more like your old self all the time." He closed his eyes. "Though I wouldn't have blamed you if you had."

Smithers stopped stroking Burns' hand. "What makes you say that?"

"I was power-mad. I so enjoyed my position towering over the rest of the town, and you were beginning to get in the way of my unbridled avarice. So I let you go."

"And they thought I shot you? How could anyone think I would...?"

"Things rapidly fell apart for the both of us. You became a belligerent drunkard, and I grew overconfident, eschewing human company to fatten my wallet by a few measly millions." He took Smithers' hand in his and held it against his chest. "I never felt so lonely in my life. I should have listened to you."

"Then listen to me now. I'm here for you."

"And thank heavens for that."

"Show me some more pictures."

Burns flipped to the next page. "Here's a picture of us on our trip to Morocco after I lost the plant."

"How was our trip?"

"It was fun... for awhile." He flipped to another page in the album. "Oh, this is a memory sure to delight you." He pointed to a photograph of them standing by a lake together, smiling. "Our last camping trip upstate. We always have such fun at my cabin on the lake." He flipped to the next page, where a picture showed Smithers looking tired and frustrated beside a tent, then another of Smithers collapsed over a sleeping bag beside a big pack of equipment, and another of Smithers drenched in rainwater while Burns sipped a cup of tea by the fireplace inside the cabin. The last picture on the page showed Smithers looking exhausted and grumpy as he hauled equipment to the car. He looked sheepishly at Smithers. "Or at least we... usually do." He quickly turned the page, and there was a photograph of Burns lounging on Smithers' couch. "Here I am on your couch after I lost my fortune and had to stay with you."

"That must have been a really tough time for you."

"Oh, it was. It could have been a much more difficult time if you hadn't welcomed me into your humble home." He curled half his lip into a smile as he looked back at the pictures. "I enjoyed living with you. Waiting for you to come home and talk about your day, and I'd talk about mine... I missed you during the day, though. That part was soul-crushing until I built my own business to occupy my time and climb my way back to the top."

"So we were still living separately, then?"

"What? Yes, until I lost my home." He looked at another picture of himself standing in front of a banner reading _Burns Recycling Co._ "I sometimes wish I could have made more of the time we lived together, but then I remember all the money I made, eventually enabling me to buy the manor back, and my plant."

"How would you have made more of the time?"

"Well, building a business from scratch is hard work, you know. By the time you came home from work, we were both too tired to do anything but watch TV for an hour until I fell asleep. I would wake up on the couch in the morning, clutching a blanket you'd draped over me the night before. Then you'd wake up and make us some coffee, and we'd only have an hour before you had to leave for work again."

"We're together now. And I'm not sleepy."

"Do you remember that time?"

"I think I remember kissing you goodnight when you were on the couch."

"I always thought I'd dreamt that..."

"What's this one of?" Smithers pointed to a picture of Burns smiling in front of a banner in the cabin at Mt. Useful.

"Oh, that's from our corporate retreat." He looked at Smithers, whose eyes gleamed with anticipation, his own eyes heavy with remorse as he recalled the acrimonious dispute they'd had leading to their separation during that trip. "We arrived long before anyone else and shared sandwiches and champagne as we warmed our bones beside the fire."

"Mmm... I can feel the heat now. What about this one?" Smithers pointed to a photo on the other page, showing Burns dancing with Mrs. Bouvier. "Were you in a dance contest?"

"Oh, no that was my fianc – my financial advisor's mother. I was showing her my steps. After that dance, you and I took to the dance floor. You're quite the dancer, a real live wire."

Smithers pointed to another photo of a restaurant exterior. "This place looks fancy. Where was this one taken?"

"That's _Les Petits Champignons Mignons_. It's a very exclusive restaurant in Paris. I'd promised to take you there during our trip for the last nuclear energy conference, but..." _But I stood you up to participate in a survey and win fifty dollars._ "But I was a few minutes late and we lost our table in the Platinum Room. But no worry," said Burns, stroking the back of Smithers' hand, "we still got a table for two in the Starlight Room."

"Oh, Monty... That sounds so romantic. I wish I could remember it."

"I will remember it for both of us, then."

"Did we eat over candlelight, gaze into each other's eyes, hold hands?"

"Yes, I believe we did."

"And did I lean in for a kiss?" Smithers looked needfully into Burns' eyes, his cheeks flushing as he inched his lips closer to Burns'.

"Yes, you did."

"And did you –" Burns was already stroking the back of Smithers' neck.

"Yes," said Burns, sliding his hand up to the back of Smithers' head and pulling him close for a kiss. "Oh, God, _yes_." He kissed Smithers again, whimpering as Smithers' tongue met his and ignited a jolt of electricity down his spine. "Oh, Waylon..." Smithers kissed him again, then trailed his lips down Burns' neck. "You're making me crazy."

"You've been making me crazy all week."

"You mean you've been wanting me?"

"Yes, Monty," he said, nuzzling his head against Burns'. "I lost my memories, not my eyesight." He pawed at Burns' chest and made a growling sound. "I know why you really didn't want the nurse to put me to bed."

"That's ridiculous; why would I want such a thing? You're engaging in baseless speculations!"

"Um... I didn't say anything yet."

"Oh. So you didn't."

"You just wanted some more alone-time with me, didn't you?"

"Waylon..."

"It's good, because I wanted more alone-time with you, Monty." He made himself comfortable, stretching against the pillows, his left arm open and welcoming him for a hug. "It's been a week."

"Yes..." He rolled into Smithers' hug, the palms of his hands wrapped around Smithers' shoulders.

"I'm not sure how far I'm ready to go," he said, massaging Burns' lower back with his good hand, "and I get the sense you're not sure, either."

"No..." He inhaled deeply, having forgotten to breathe. "I'm not."

"That's okay. We'll go slow." He slowed the swirling motions he made across Burns' back, heightening the sensation, and Burns moaned. "Just like this."

Burns' voice became strained. "Waylon...?"

Smithers tugged gently at Burns' earlobe with his teeth, then whispered, "Mmm...Monty."

Burns' eyelids fluttered open and shut in a confused and conflicted ecstasy. "S-slower..." Smithers kissed along the side of Burns' neck from his ear to his collar bone, then nuzzled his head against Burns'. After several minutes, he kissed Burns' chest just below his chin, and Burns' breathing intensified. "Oh, for God's sake, Waylon!" He took Smithers' face between both of his hands, tilted his head upward, and kissed him flush on the lips, then broke their contact as he panted, eyes drifting upward and away as he reeled at the thought of what he was doing with his longtime friend and assistant. "Great heavens, what am I doing?"

"It's okay," Smithers chuckled. "We'll get into the rhythm eventually. It'll take time, but eventually things between us will be back to normal."

"No," said Burns, shaking his head. "Things will never be normal between us again."

"Things won't go back to exactly how they were," Smithers said, his hand around the nape of Burns' neck, his thumb stroking Burns' cheek. "But maybe we can have something just as good as normal."

"Yes," he said, his eyes fixed on Smithers' thumb. "Perhaps we can." He turned his head and kissed Smithers' thumb. When he lifted his lips, Smithers turned him by the cheek and kissed him on the lips, Burns' legs squirming not in protest but in ecstasy as he opened his mouth to Smithers'.

"Was that normal enough?"

"Not even close to normal, but don't let that stop you." Smithers kissed him again, only for Burns to sharply break their contact. "We aren't boarding school lads fooling around. For heaven's sake, we're grown men!"

"Grown men who've learned a trick or two since school days," said Smithers, teasing Burns' neck with a wet kiss and a tentative impression of his teeth. "I may have forgotten a lot, but I remember you're adorably ticklish behind your ear." He began to tickle behind Burns' ear, and Burns went into a giggling fit.

"Waylon..." His giggles cascaded over one another, keeping him from continuing. "P-please..."

"Okay," he said, withdrawing his fingers and instead brushing his lips lightly against the back of Burns' ear, eliciting the tingle of a blush that seemed to go straight to his heart. "Is that better?"

"Yes," he said, his heart fluttering. "Do you want to know the way I used to kiss you?"

"Yes." He kissed the nape of Burns' neck. "Yes, Monty, I do."

"Like this," he said, wrapping his spindly fingers around the back of Smithers' head, then bringing their lips together and kissing him in an impassioned yet controlled manner, in no hurry to finish but simply relishing every minute sensation. Their lips parted with a subtle smacking sound, and then Smithers rested his head against Burns' shoulder.

"God, you're a great kisser. Did I tell you that enough?"

"Perhaps not enough."

"You are. You're really great at it."

"You're quite skilled at it yourself."

"Did you tell me that often?"

"Not as often as I should have."

"Please, tell me more about us. You've been awfully quiet before today. I want to know everything there is to know about our life."

"Everything, eh? I'm afraid even my memory isn't good enough to tell you that."

"Start with our first date."

"Our – first date. Yes, of course, we, uh –" Burns tented his fingers nervously. "It was at the end of the day at the plant, and I had you make reservations at The Gilded Truffle for us, just as I would ordinarily have you do in your capacity as my assistant. In the guise of a typical business dinner, we dined, only I had the violinists play music for us, and when they handed us the check, I slipped a gold foil card on top, and when you went to pay the check, you opened it, and you read my message to you quietly to yourself. It was a love note, and your cheeks flushed as you read it."

"What did the note say?"

"How am I supposed to know? I mean, I don't remember exactly what I wrote, but it was something like, 'If I told you I fancied you, would you fancy a dance with me?' and you simply wrote 'yes' all in capitals. That evening, we danced beneath the stars in the yard of my estate as a string quartet played for us."

"Our first date," said Smithers, closing his eyes and imagining it. "I wish I could remember that. Maybe if we re – if we re... if we did it again."

"You mean, a re-creation?"

"Yes. Come on, for old time's sake?"

"Yes, that certainly sounds feasible." He smiled. "Yes, we'll do a re-creation!"

"It'll be just like the first time."

"Yes, just like the first time."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"Don't push yourself too hard, Mr. Smithers," said his physical therapist, Bill, as Smithers struggled to hold himself upright, propping himself up against a bureau. His legs gave out and Bill caught him, then helped him back into his wheelchair. "Usually my problem is the patient doesn't want to work hard enough, so I don't say that very often."

"I have to get back on my feet as soon as I can. Monty and I are going to re-create our first date. I want to be able to dance with him. And I don't want to disappoint him. He's such a sweet man."

"I know, but – really, Mr. Burns?" He shook his head. "Never mind." He handed Smithers some physical therapy bands. "But you can't possibly expect to be able to dance in the next couple of weeks. Recovery from your injuries is going to be measured in months, not weeks."

Smithers put one end of each band around a foot and proceeded to pull up his legs and bend his knees, one at a time. "I don't expect to be able to do the Lindy hop with him anytime soon. I just want to be able to do a romantic slow dance with him."

"Well, if you want to maximize your progress, make sure you do your exercises throughout the day. Reviewing your log, I see you missed your morning and noon exercises yesterday."

"I know, Monty stayed home with me, and I wanted to make the most of our time together. Now that he's back at work, I can focus on getting better."

"Okay, but recognize your limits. You don't want to set yourself back."

* * *

Burns sat at his desk with the palm of his hand under his chin, looking at his phone sitting face up on the other side of his desk and twiddling his fingers nervously against his cheek. _How I wish I could call Smithers. But what if he's still sleeping? Or I interrupt his physical therapy again? I don't want to come across as being too needy._ He pulled out his wallet and affectionately lowered his eyelids as he looked at a picture of himself and Smithers enjoying ice cream cones at the beach. "We'll have those days soon again, dear friend."

 _Except we won't ever have those days again. I've led him to believe we were an item, unintentionally at first, but now I've actively misled him about our relationship, and we kissed as lovers do._ He closed his eyes, remembering their impassioned necking the day before, touching his fingertips to his neck where Smithers had kissed him. _Well, at least my deception spared us an awkward conversation where I finally tell him about all these feelings I've been having lately._

 _Still... would he reciprocate my feelings if he did remember? Or is he only requiting my love out of a misplaced sense of loyalty to his mate? Or perhaps out of gratitude for my assistance during his recuperation? What if he would reject me if he found out?_ Burns swiveled around in his chair and gazed upward at the cooling towers and the sky. "I'm in way over my head." He reached for his phone, but instead of dialing Smithers, he looked up another number in his contact list and rang him. "This is Montgomery Burns, and I need to schedule an emergency appointment with Dr. Kowalski. ... As soon as possible. ... When I say 'as soon as possible,' I mean _today_! ... Then _make_ an opening today. This is Charles Montgomery Burns! ... Thank you," he said, exasperated, as he hung up the phone.

He left his office for his limousine, then drove to his new psychiatrist's downtown office, an old brick building with a fire escape outside. He walked into the lobby, and Dr. Kowalski, a man in his fifties with brown hair with silver streaks in a blue sweater and brown pants, approached him. "Mr. Burns, please come in."

"Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice," he said, following him to his office.

"Oh, please, Mr. Burns, it's my pleasure. You're the jewel in the crown of my career." He opened the door to his office and let Burns in first.

"I'm not so sure that's as flattering as you seem to think." He sat in a sapphire blue Lawson chair across from Dr. Kowalski, who sat in a brown leather tub-style chair angled toward him.

"I mean, you have such a complex mind, with so many layers and interesting problems."

"Yes, well, I'm not your typical bored housewife on Valium."

"So what brings you in today?" He got out a notepad with a pencil and sat back, ready to take notes.

"Well, I suppose the sooner I get on with it, the better." He took in a deep breath and exhaled. "I've been caring for my employee who lost his memories of me after pushing me out of the way of an oncoming car. We've always been friends, but in the weeks before the accident, I was beginning to look upon him more fondly than that, but I hesitated to broach the topic with him. So after he lost his memory of me, I tricked him into thinking we were already in a long-term romantic partnership, and I've been telling him lies about our past, inventing romantic dates, telling him we've made love, and so forth."

"And you're feeling guilty about deceiving him?"

"No! I need help figuring out how to keep him from ever finding out!"

"Mr. Burns, I'm here to help you work out your emotional problems, not help you deceive people."

Burns crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. "Well, that's just great."

"Why don't we talk about why you were afraid to have an honest discussion with him and open up about your feelings, hm?"

"Why do you _think_ I was reluctant to tell him?"

"Hey, I'm the one who is supposed to reverse the questions back on you."

"I didn't want him to think of me as some lonely old pervert. He has always been a friend to me when no one else has. I couldn't abide seeing him look upon me with disgust in his eyes. I know, because I've seen him aghast at my moral transgressions. I've tried to annihilate my tender feelings for him with surges of rage and indifference, but at the end of the day, he's always been there to tuck me in at night, and when he would shut the door on his way out, I would sometimes cry into my pillow, lamenting that he ever had to leave my side."

"And how does he feel about being in a relationship with you?"

"Oh, he seems quite happy about it," Burns said with a sigh, as if he didn't quite believe it.

"Then isn't that good news?"

"You don't understand. I led him to believe we were already romantically entangled. He is so loyal, I am certain he would stay even if he felt miserable with me."

"Surely you would be able to tell if he's really attracted to you or only feigning interest."

"If I couldn't tell when he was bullshitting me about my financial situation, how could I tell if he's being sincere in his affection?"

"Well, how does he look at you?"

"With a smile and a glint in his eye that gives me butterflies. He kisses me so perfervidly, too, and he does say he's been wanting me all week..."

"It sounds like he's into you."

"But you don't know him like I do. He's an unabashed kiss-ass, and I've been tending to him since the accident. He gives such over-the-top compliments, at every hour of the day, at the slightest provocation."

"Does he? Or does he only compliment you so readily?" Burns looked thoughtfully into the floor. "Anyway, if he loves you, you don't need to deceive him to be with him, and if he doesn't love you back, he is going to leave you eventually, anyway."

"Not if I tell him he already married me and signed a pre-nuptial agreement. I can have my lawyers doctor up some papers lickety-split. He'll have to stay with me if he wants to continue living in luxury."

"Mr. Burns, that's not going to solve your problems. Your emotional insecurity will destroy your chances of making a relationship work if you don't address it. Why do you feel you need to resort to deceit to keep him with you?"

"Because... he's the only one who could possibly love me as I am." He sniffled, and Dr. Kowalski handed him a tissue, which he used to dab his eye. "If I lost him..."

"So shouldn't he be the one you're most comfortable being honest with? If he's such a loyal, good friend, you should be able to talk about this with him."

"So, that's your advice, eh? 'Be honest?'" Burns scoffed. "As if that's ever worked."

"Could part of your anxiety be that you're having a difficult time being honest with yourself?"

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"Homosexual relationships were much more stigmatized in your day. You've only mentioned being with women to me."

"Do you honestly think I concern myself with the prudish moralizing of church-men?"

"Maybe not, but when you were growing up, it was a different world, and there weren't, by and large, any out gay or bi men in the public sphere."

"I'll thank you not to educate me on 'my day,' which if you haven't forgotten was fifty years before you were born."

"My point is that maybe you need to work on accepting yourself before diving into a relationship built on lies. Here," he said, writing a number on the corner of his notepad and tearing it off, handing it to Burns. "This is the number of a social group for older gay and bisexual men. Why don't you try to connect with them?" Burns stared at the piece of paper in his hand. "It might do you good to get some practice opening up about your feelings."

Burns crumpled up the paper and stuffed it into his left breast pocket. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard. I'm more socially connected than you are."

"I don't mean connect as in 'connections,' I mean connect as in relate to, on a personal level. I know that some of the men there were closeted a very long time, even into their sixties."

"Do you take me for some sort of novice to this world? I've had affairs with men long before you were ever born. I've worn my share of green carnations and red neckties."

"It's only a suggestion. I really hope you follow through on it, though. I think you'll really benefit from talking to men with perhaps some similar life experiences, men whom you don't have to censor yourself around."

"I shall consider it."

* * *

Author Note: Starting next chapter, the rating goes up to M.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Burns drove home after the appointment ended, arriving about an hour earlier than usual. When he walked in through the front entrance, the mansion felt empty. Assuming Smithers was in his room, Burns decided to venture into a closet where he kept old gifts from Smithers that he didn't use much. He had an entire cabinet of cards, some sweaters and technical gadgets. Among them was a walkman with headphones attached and an audio cassette inside. He opened it to read the label on the tape. It read: "mix tape for Monty" written in Smithers' hand. Burns replaced the batteries, then listened to it. It started playing the song "People Will Say We're in Love" from Oklahoma.

He opened the file cabinet and took out a stack of cards, reading them one by one. He noticed that Smithers nearly always wrote some lengthy message written in lavish language. As the cassette played on, he listened to the songs "Easy to Love" from Anything Goes, "Somewhere" from West Side Story, "On the Street Where You Live" from My Fair Lady, and "I've Been Waiting For You" and "My Love, My Life" by Abba.

By the time the tape got to the Abba songs, he muttered something about "sappy romantic tripe," then opened a Christmas card that wasn't from Smithers to Burns – it was the card they annually sent out to family and employees. The front of the card bore a photograph of Smithers with elf ears and a silly green outfit that made him look like one of the Happy Little Elves, standing with his arm around Burns' shoulder, Burns attired in a black overcoat and top hat. Burns had a carefree, enthusiastically fun-loving expression as he looked at Smithers, his mouth wide open in a smile as the photographer had caught his reaction to a joke from Smithers. "Oh, yes, I remember. We decided not to send this one because I looked too cheerful."

Halfway through the song, he felt a tear slip out from his eye, then another and another. He began to quietly sing along, imagining Smithers singing to him. "You thrill me, you delight me / You please me, you excite me / You're something I'd been pleading for. / I love you, I adore you / I lay my life before you / I'll have you want me more and more." He shook his head and dropped the card to the floor. "What am I doing? I am not some dewy-eyed adolescent. I'm a captain of industry, a man of dignity. I don't quietly pine for what I desire, I seek it out!" He stood up, setting the walkman on the file cabinet, the tape still playing as he left the closet and headed for Smithers' room.

As Burns swung the door to Smithers' room open, he saw Smithers in his robe tied loosely at the waist standing in front of him. "Waylon! You're standing!" Just as he said it, Smithers wobbled back and forth and fell backwards onto the bed, his robe opening a bit. Burns caught a flash of his boxer shorts.

"Not anymore."

"But you were!" He rushed to Smithers and sat at the front of the bed beside him. "You're making excellent progress. I'll have you back to normal before you can say 'strike-breaker.'"

"Thanks, but I still have a long way to go."

He caressed Smithers' cheek. "I missed you today." He brought his fingers to the back of Smithers' neck and kissed him on the lips, dragging his hand down from Smithers' neck to the front of his shoulder, and pushed him gently back onto the bed, maintaining their kiss as he fell on top of him, then slid his lips down to Smithers' neck and began kissing.

"Oh! Are you trying to give me a hickey?"

"Now I am," said Burns before diving back to lick and kiss him at a more aggressive pace, and Smithers began kissing along Burns' neck. Burns moved his hands to Smithers' chest, beneath the robes, pushing them apart. Smithers vigorously attended to Burns' neck, maintaining contact as he rolled Burns onto his other side. Sprawled on the bed, his robe open, exposing his bare chest and boxer shorts, Smithers said, "Give me the opportunity to impress you."

"You've already impressed me with the rate you can eat all that food and get such a chubby belly," he said, rounding the bed to sit beside him and place his hand over Smithers' stomach. He'd gained about twenty pounds from indulging his steroid-fueled appetite and his recent inactivity.

Smithers looked down at himself. "Is it really that much?"

"Hm?"

"Did I really gain so much weight I'm not attractive anymore?"

"What? No, I wouldn't say so."

"I promise, I'll start eating healthier tomorrow. I didn't realize."

"Please, Waylon, don't make a 'thing' out of this."

"I just don't want you to think I'm ugly," he said, pinching at his belly fat.

"For heaven's sake, you're not ugly," he said, prying Smithers' hands off his own belly.

"I'm not?"

"No! You're perfectly attractive."

"You're sweet. But I'm still going to go on a diet."

"If you insist. Sheesh."

At dinner, Smithers insisted on having only a light salad with a paltry smattering of lean chicken and egg white and a splash of balsamic vinegar. Smithers finished it quickly, then looked longingly at the plate of roast beef Burns was slowly whittling away at. After slowly inhaling the aroma, Smithers said, "How are you enjoying your roast beef, dear?"

"It's not as good as what you used to make me." He took another bite, keeping an eye on Smithers' envious expression. "Oh, for heaven's sake, have some!" He slid the plate in front of Smithers.

"No, I've eaten so much lately..."

"Eat it, Waylon. I'm not going to let you keep me up all night with your stomach rumbling a borborygmic symphony."

Smithers had a few slices, Burns cutting a new slice as Smithers ate. "There. Are you satisfied?"

"Yes, now don't you feel better?"

"Yes," he said, smiling and pushing the plate back to Burns, who resumed slowly taking bites. Yawning, Smithers said, "I'm really tired. I'm going to go to bed now," and began to sluggishly wheel himself toward the hall.

"Wait," said Burns, getting up from his seat. "Let me escort you." He wheeled Smithers down the hall, and when they arrived outside the door to Smithers' room, Burns turned him toward the door to his own room. "How would you like to sleep in my room tonight?"

"That sounds good." As Burns laboriously helped Smithers into his bed, Smithers said, "Why was I sleeping in a different bed, anyway, if we usually sleep together?"

"Well, truth be told..." Burns bit his lower lip. "The truth is, we didn't usually sleep in the same bed before the accident. We only shared a bed during..." Burns lowered his eyelids in a shy, seductive fashion as he sat on the bed beside him. "Our intimate congress."

"Our what? Oh," said Smithers with a smile and a blush. "I'm afraid I'm..." Smithers yawned. "Too tired for that now."

"Yes, of course. Get your rest." Burns changed into his robe and then pulled the blankets over his torso, smiling as his hand settled around Smithers' shoulder blade. "Heaven knows I could use some, too." Smithers put his arm around Burns, and they looked into each other's eyes as they kissed goodnight and Smithers placed his glasses on the nightstand.

In what felt like the next moment, Burns felt Smithers' hand tickling at the small of his back, then move for the tie to Burns' robe. "Waylon, what are you –?"

"Shh..." Burns felt Smithers put a finger to his lips before kissing them. As the sides of Burns' robe came apart, Smithers felt Burns' back underneath the robe. Burns reached for the waist of Smithers' boxers to tug them down, only to realize that he wasn't wearing any.

"What happened to your –?"

"The same thing that happened to yours," he said, and Burns realized he was naked below the waist as well. "I've been practicing with my physical therapy skills."

"Well done. If you were being graded, I would say you deserve an A-plus."

"I know what you want to happen next, as eager as you'd be to deny it," he said, dragging his hand down Burns' back to his buttock.

"I won't deny you."

"I won't deny you, either," he said, using lube on himself.

"Excellent." The next thing he knew, Smithers was topping him. "Oh... Harder. Faster." Smithers slightly quickened his pace. "Damn it, Waylon, I'm not made of tissue paper! Plow me!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Oh! Yes, that's it! Excellent!"

Burns awoke with a start. He was still lying in Smithers' arms, but he was fully clothed. To check whether Smithers was still wearing his boxer shorts, he felt the waistband of Smithers' boxers. Smithers stirred as he felt Burns pawing at his shorts and moaned, then pulled them down a few inches on one side, revealing the crease of one of his legs. Burns' eyes went wide, and he rapidly withdrew, rolling out of Smithers' arms and out of his bed. Smithers mumbled something in confusion but quickly fell back to sleep.

Burns retreated to the nearest bathroom. _I can hardly believe it. A wet dream, at my age! I haven't had one in over fifty years. And with Smithers of all people!_ He splashed his face with water, then stared at the man he hardly recognized staring back at him. _I wanted him to take me with vigor._ He watched as the water dripped down his nose. _I still want him to take me with vigor. I want him to take me and fill me and thrill me._ He dropped his robe and looked at his scraggly white hair, his liver spots, his wrinkled skin and bony body. Here was the energy mogul laid bare, without the cheap trappings of corporate power. _Just how far do I plan to take my little charade?_ He sighed and looked to his bony feet before looking back to the reflection of his face in the mirror. "What would Smithers even want with me this late in the game?"

He changed his underwear for a fresh pair, as he always kept a few spare pairs in his bathroom in case he needed to replace it, though this wasn't exactly the emergency scenario he'd had in mind. _What does Smithers even think he's doing with me in the first place? He seems to think I'm sexy, but does he really mean it? Or is he just playing the doting lover? What if he finds out I've manipulated him with my actions? His mother would tear me a new one for taking advantage of him. She genuinely terrifies me when she's angry. I don't even want to think about what his father would think if he were still alive._ He put his green robe back on, then went back to his bedroom, tip-toeing as he approached his bed, stopping to look at Smithers, whose mouth hung open as he snored. _Smithers, you have no right to be so wretchedly adorable._

He curled up with Bobo, facing away from Smithers, and soon felt Smithers bring his arm around Burns' stomach. _Dear God, I hope he is truly infatuated with me and not with my pocketbook. It would be the end of me if he left me like all the others._


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

As he walked down the corridors of the power plant on his way to his office, Burns noticed employees snickering and whispering more than usual behind his back. Then, as he turned a corner, he stood with his back flat against a wall and listened to the employees behind him as they resumed their casual banter.

"Did you see that hickey on his neck?" said a random drone. "He must be seeing another woman."

"Ew. Can you imagine a woman making out with _Mr. Burns_?"

"Sure can. I'm sure plenty of women are attracted to his wallet. Hell, _I'd_ make out with him for a couple mil!" They laughed.

Burns creased his brow in rage and humiliation, then marched back to where the employees stood, laughing. "You're not half as attractive as you seem to think," he said, startling the men. "Now, get back to work!" he yelled to the employees who stood watching the situation unfold. As Burns trotted back to the hall, he stopped and said to the two men, "Except for you two. You're fired." He tented his fingers with a malicious grin, then cheerily said, "Ta!"

* * *

Dr. Kowalski looked up from his clipboard at the anxious and taciturn mogul. "What brings you here today, Mr. Burns?" Mr. Burns opened his mouth as if to answer then looked to the side. "You must have something on your mind, since you made me cancel my one o'clock to speak with you."

After a long, slow sigh, Burns broke the pensive silence. "I've never felt this way about anyone before. I've felt the giddy thrill of new love, the animal passion of a sexual conquest, but this..." He opened his wallet to look at a picture of Smithers smiling back at him. "I've never felt a more intimate bond with another person."

"Why don't you tell me about him?"

"Why, to satisfy your idle curiosity?"

"No, because I think it will help you to be able to talk about these feelings instead of bottling them up. How long have you felt this way about him?"

"Since the time he quit me a few months ago. I realized how much he did for me... and how much I missed him. One night after he'd gone, I dreamt I was lying on a lounge chair on the beach, and he walked by me. I tried to get his attention, but he ignored me calling his name. I stood and went after him, and I grasped onto his hand, and he responded with a curt 'What?' I pleaded with him to hear me out, and I led him back to my lounge chair, and we sat beside each other. I told him, 'Waylon, come back to me. I need you,' but he said, 'I'm sorry, sir. I've moved on with my life.' Then I began to cry, and it felt real and raw, and I said, 'Did all our years together mean nothing?' And he said, 'According to you, they didn't.' I nodded, then took his hands into mine.

"I said, 'Waylon, there's so much I never told you.' He asked me what those things might be, and I wrapped my arms around his torso and told him he's excellent, truly excellent, and I couldn't imagine my life without him there to share it with. He hugged me back, and we decided we weren't very comfortable after a minute or so, so we lay back on the lounge chair, still holding each other. I was wearing the speedo he'd given me, and he wore his swimming trunks, and, well..." Burns looked shyly to the ground, his cheeks turning red. "We enjoyed each other." He looked plaintively into his therapist's eyes. "He's one of the few people I've ever been able to truly trust. As a wealthy man, everyone wants a piece of me. Family, friends, lovers – they always reveal themselves to be backstabbers in the end. The only men I've ever been able to trust are the men I pay."

"I think I'm beginning to understand your predicament. It's not that you are anxious about desiring a man as much as you are anxious that he, or anyone, can't truly reciprocate your feelings without having ulterior motives. Is that right?"

"Yes, that's it. I have always been able to trust Smithers. I would hate to lose that. It's what makes him different from all the rest."

"Smithers is the man you're in love with?"

Burns nodded. "Even after testing him many times, letting him think I'm cutting him out of my will, he always worked for my interests, and that's because I paid him, so it was in his interests as well. It's capitalism at its finest."

"But clearly you desire something deeper than a transactional relationship."

"All relationships are transactional. Some are just more honest about it than others."

"I think it's deeply sad that you believe that."

"Would you have me believe the fairy tale that is true love? I spent the better part of a century believing in and searching for true love. Believe me when I say it's a fickle phantasm, so don't waste your time chasing after it. You'll only end up more bitterly disappointed than you were to begin with."

"Does Smithers agree with you about that? Does he see your relationship as transactional?"

"Whether he sees it that way or not, that's how it is and always has been. I've been terribly rash trying to convince him and myself that it's not. I can't go on with this charade any longer."

"It sounds to me like you're afraid."

"That's ridiculous; what could I possibly be afraid of?"

"If you take a chance on true love and it goes wrong, you risk losing him. You would rather maintain your miserable status quo of angry solitude until the day you go to your grave than open your heart to a genuine connection with another human being."

"Of course I'm afraid of losing him! Because without a financial incentive, there's no way anyone could truly love... me..."

"It's not true love that you've given up on, Mr. Burns. It's yourself you've given up on. You won't give anyone a chance to love you. But clearly, you want to."

"I do want to believe he loves me."

"You've internalized the notion that you're unlovable, and so you actively push people away, reinforcing that notion while cushioning your psyche against injury by pretending you're the one who rejected them first. Well, love doesn't work that way. If you want him to love you, you have to open up and let him love you."

"Do you really think he could love me?"

"The only way you'll find out is if you give him the chance to love you."

* * *

"I want you back at work," said Burns at the dinner table after a sip of wine.

Smithers finished chewing his bite of green beans. "I'd love to go back to work with you, but I really don't think I'm up to it. I'm still tired all the time, and my thinking isn't too clear."

"Oh, pish posh. You can sleep in and come in late, and you'll be on light duties. What do you say?"

"I don't know..."

"Please, Waylon? It gets terribly lonely without you."

"I get lonely here, too." He smiled. "Okay. I'll do it."

"Excellent. I'll pick you up on my lunch break tomorrow."

The next day at noon, Burns drove home from the plant, then brought his Pontiac Astrowagon to the front entrance. He approached the door and upon opening it saw Smithers looking at him from his wheelchair, looking polished in his usual business attire. "I'm ready for work," said Smithers.

Burns smiled warmly. "You look great."

"I feel great," he said, wheeling himself to the passenger side door and boarding the lift. Once he was inside and the wheelchair safely stowed, he turned to Burns at the wheel. "How long does it take to get there?"

Burns widened his eyes, startled at suddenly being confronted with the depth of Smithers' memory loss. "Only a few minutes."

"I probably won't be much help today. I don't even remember the layout."

"Don't concern yourself. I'll teach you everything you need to know." He started the car and headed for the gate. "Yes, my dear friend, with my help, you'll be back on your feet in no time." Burns drove the car much slower than he usually did, frightened at the thought of re-injuring Smithers, but he still drove inexpertly, the car weaving in and out of its lane. When he pulled into the power plant parking lot and stopped the car, he said, "Now remember, as far as anyone here is aware, we are strictly boss and employee. We are not lovers; we do not exchange tender glances over cups of caffeinated beverages, nor do we steal kisses beneath the hum of the indifferent fluorescent bulbs above us."

"Monty, you –"

"That's _sir_ to you, now."

"Oh, sir, you have such a way with words."

Burns smiled, self-satisfied. "I missed the way you call me, 'sir.'" Burns shook his head and adopted a severe expression as he opened the door. "Now, Smithers, let's go manage our plant."

Smithers smiled gleefully. "With pleasure... sir." They went through the plant to Burns' office, drones turning their heads at the sight of Smithers. When they arrived in the office, Smithers craned his neck, looking around the spacious room and comparing it with the still photos he'd seen. "What's my first – the first thing for me to do?"

"Well, it is still our lunch hour. I ordered some Chinese food for delivery. It should arrive momentarily. In the meantime, I'll introduce you to your duties."

"I'm all ears... _sir_ ," he said with a seductive lilt, his eyes half-lidded.

"Yes, well, as I said, you're on light duties for the time being. Your office is next to mine, but for now I want you in my office so I can better assist your re-training. Today, I want you to focus on the telephone." He showed Smithers the telephone on his desk as he sat in his chair, and Smithers maneuvered himself beside him. "You will answer and either address the caller or transfer them to me, which, as this is my telephone, only requires that you hand it to me. You are also responsible for placing any calls I tell you to, starting with this one," he said, reaching into his wallet and setting a gold foil card on the desk in front of Smithers.

Smithers' eyes lit up, and Burns twiddled his fingers in anticipation. "I think I know what call you want me to make." Turning the card over, Smithers saw that on it was written a phone number and the order to "buy more pens." Smithers gave an embarrassed, disappointed, "oh," then reached to dial.

Burns closed his fingers over Smithers' wrist just as the tip of his index finger brushed against the top of the first button. "I'm only pulling your leg, Waylon." He pulled another gold foil card out of his pocket and held it in front of Smithers.

Taking it into his hand, Smithers read, "'Call The Gilded Truffle and reserve a table for two at six o'clock tonight.'" Below it was written the phone number to The Gilded Truffle. Smithers grinned mischievously at Burns. "You charming devil."

"Yes, now hop to it!"

"Right away," he said, dialing the number. "Hello, this is Waylon Smithers, and I'd like to reserve a table for two tonight. ... At six o'clock. ... Oh, you don't have anything left at six?"

"Say you're reserving on behalf of Mr. Burns."

"I'm reserving the table on behalf of Mr. Burns. ... Great! We'll be there at six." He hung up the phone. "We have the best table in the house."

"Excellent."

A man arrived carrying a bag with a picture of a pagoda. "The total is $21.43," he said, and Burns handed him the exact amount before waving him away, then carried the bag back to his desk, his arms wobbling from the strain.

Smithers moved out toward him. "Oh, poor honey, let me help with that," he said, reaching his arm out to take the bag.

Burns heaved the bag onto Smithers' lap, then followed him back to the desk. "I am not poor, and I am not your 'honey,'" he snapped.

"I'm sorry, I know we're at work. I'll try to keep it professional."

"It's not that," said Burns listlessly as he plopped back into his chair.

"What is it, then?" Smithers looked into his eyes, concerned.

"It's no fun getting old, and I've been old for the last forty years. It usually doesn't weigh on me like this, but that's because for the last twenty-five years, I've had you to shoulder my physical burdens. Between my age and your infirmity, I feel truly hindered in a way I can't remember ever feeling." Smithers placed his hand over Burns' and intertwined their fingers. Burns first opened his mouth to protest, then smiled and leaned his head against Smithers' shoulder, his eyes closed in contentment. "You make me happy, Waylon, happier than I ever thought was possible."

"I'm happy to be with you, too."

"You don't know what you're happy about," he snarled, withdrawing to lean back in his own chair.

"What do you mean?"

"You hardly know me. If you remembered my every sordid deed, would you still feel this way for me?"

"Do you have a lot of sordid deeds in your past?"

"Yes. I have."

"Did I know about them before the accident?"

"Oh, yes, you've helped me execute many an ethically dubious plot, your quibbles notwithstanding."

"Then they couldn't have been too bad, if I still loved you."

"If only I could be certain of that."

"You could tell me about some of them."

"But what if it changes how you look at me?"

"I have a hard time believing that. You're such a sweet man," said Smithers, running his hand over Burns' shoulder. "Besides, I know our relationship couldn't have been all sunshine and lollipops. It's normal to have ups and downs."

"Yes, well, on that subject, I'm afraid I've... misled you."

"Misled me? How?"

"Well... I've never been comfortable professing my... feelings and so forth, and I seem to have given you the impression that..." He stared nervously into Smithers' sympathetic, attentive eyes. "That I... that I'm not interested in consummating our relationship. In fact, I..." Burns tented his fingers nervously together. "I have a keen interest in making love to you."

"That can be arranged," he said, grinning. "Maybe after our date tonight."

Burns smiled nervously, dabbing at some beads of sweat on his forehead, then shook his head to regroup and steady his nerves. He gave a seductive, bordering on malevolent smile, then raised his eyebrows in a tender gesture and said, "It's a date." Smithers started to lean his head closer to Burns', only for Burns to turn his attention to the Chinese take-out on his desk. "Now, let's eat before our lunch gets any colder."

As they ate lunch, Burns reminded Smithers of some of the basic operations of the plant and the kinds of calls he'd be expected to field, as well as some of the latest gossip about their employees. "I heard Shannon from accounting is dating her supervisor Toby," said Burns.

"Oh, really?" Smithers sheepishly confessed, "I have no idea who those people are." His eyes lit up. "I haven't been here long, but I do know one piece of gossip already."

"What is it?" said Burns, mystified.

"I heard Waylon is dating his boss."

"You'll keep that one under wraps."

"But wait, it gets better," said Smithers eagerly, then leaning in to whisper into Burns' ear. "I also heard he's been falling in love with him all over again."

"Are you certain your source is reliable?"

"Very reliable."

Burns' cheeks grew hot, and he pushed aside his box with leftover rice and chicken and pulled some papers out of his drawer and straighten them. "Well, I'm full. Time to get back to work." He flipped rapidly through the stack of papers, trying to look busy.

Smithers leaned in close enough to feel the heat from Burns' cheek on his own. "You're adorable when you're nervous."

"Remember what I said about salacious talk at work?" He continued to shuffle papers around.

"You're right," he said, leaning back into his own chair. "I'll save it for tonight." He smiled in anticipation of their romantic evening.

Burns' eyes went wide. "Tonight." _Great heavens, tonight! Is it really true? We're going to indulge carnal pleasures this evening? How many years has it been since I was last with a man?_ He counted the decades off his hand, finger by finger. _Nearly eighty years. I hope he doesn't see me as a wretchedly out-of-practice old fool._ He twiddled his fingers over the desktop and met Smithers' gaze. _Damn it, he's still smiling at me._ Burns tried to reciprocate his smile, but his eyes drifted away from Smithers' and his smile looked nervous, forced to cover his anxieties. "If you'll excuse me," he said, scooting out of his chair. "I have a... something to attend to." He scuttled out of the office, closing the door behind himself and exhaling slowly.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

"Calm down, Monty," said Burns to himself in the hallway outside his office. "This is what I have my aphrodisiac for." He felt around his inside jacket pockets and pulled out a syringe. He inspected it and said, "Blast! It's empty." He tossed the empty syringe across the hall, and it shattered against the wall. "I must have wasted the last of it on that dame Gloria. No matter, I'm sure the apothecarist has an alternative." He rushed out the plant to his car and peeled out of the parking lot en route to the pharmacy.

Once he parked crookedly across several spaces and rushed in, he ran past the people in line and rang the bell repeatedly, demanding service. The pharmacist sighed and said, "What can I do for you today, Mr. Burns?"

"I have a matter of, uh, some delicacy to discuss," he said, darting his eyes back and forth, conscious of the other people in line.

"All right," said the pharmacist. "Come around back," he said, opening a door and guiding Burns to a small room. "So, what did you need to discuss?"

"I, uh..."

"Yes?"

"I need..." He gulped. "A pill."

"What kind of pill? We have refills of about a dozen of your medications ready."

"I need a special kind of pill." His cheeks flushed. "To assist me in... performing."

"I think I know what you're talking about." He looked at his clipboard detailing Burns' pharmacological history. "You want a refill of your beta blocker, right?"

Burns gulped. "No, I mean a pill that facilitates..." He leaned in close to the pharmacist's ear and whispered, "...sexual relations."

"Oh, you mean an impotence drug?" He looked at his clipboard. "I don't see any prescriptions for a drug that will help you with that. Do you want us to call your doctor and have them fax us the prescription?"

"I don't have a prescription for one."

"I'm sorry, but these drugs are prescription-only."

"Now, you listen to me, I'm Charles Montgomery Burns, and when I tell you to give me the drug, you give it to me, no questions asked!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Burns, but it's against the law."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I could lose my job."

"You'll lose more than that if you don't comply!"

"Look, Mr. Burns, do you really want to make a scene about this?" He noted Burns' look of concern and went on. "We can set you up to meet with a doctor today. We don't normally set up appointments for customers, but we can –"

Burns' phone rang, and he answered. "Yes, Smithers, I'm all right. ... I went to fetch some medicines at the pharmacy. ... Yes, I can pick yours up, too. ... I'll be back at the office soon. I have some other errands to run, but I won't be long. ... Yes, the same to you. Goodbye, now." He hung up his phone. "Smithers is as much a worrywart as he ever was," he said, smiling in relief that Smithers had not lost who he was in the accident.

"As I was saying, we can make an exception. I know a doctor who will prescribe you anything you want." He went to the phone as Burns waited in the little room. "May I speak to Dr. Riviera? Oh, that's too bad. Thanks anyway." He hung up, then dialed again. "Dr. Hibbert? Hi, this is Mr. Roberts from the Pop-N-Go Pharmacy. I have Mr. Burns here with an urgent request. ... I don't think he'd want me discussing it over the phone. Can you squeeze him in? ... Great, thank you." He went back to Burns and said, "Dr. Hibbert says he can see you as soon as you get there."

"Excellent," he said, then left for the hospital after they gave him his and Smithers' prescriptions. Once he arrived at Springfield General Hospital, he made his way to Dr. Hibbert's office and approached the front desk. The receptionist recognized him and phoned Dr. Hibbert to tell him his VIP patient had arrived. He finished up with his current patient while a nurse took his vitals, then waved him inside.

"Mr. Burns, what's your urgent concern that brings you here today?"

"It is urgent, doctor. I've run out of my aphrodisiac, and I need to ensure I'm able to perform. Sexually," he said, nervously averting his gaze. "Tonight."

Dr. Hibbert said teasingly, "Want to show Waylon a good time? Are you sure he's ready for that yet?"

Burns' stomach sank as his eyebrows lifted. "How did you know?"

"Oh, come on, Mr. Burns, you might as well ask me how I know the sky is blue. Anyone with eyes can see it." He chuckled. "I can prescribe you a medication to help you with that. It's a new one in the class of phosphodiesterases called getitupanfil, or Vitamin G." He began writing a prescription. "Just take one within a few hours of when you plan to get it on. It won't make you aroused, but it will help you if you do become aroused."

"Yes, well, thank you, doctor, but I must be on my way," he said, leaving.

"No problem, Mr. Burns."

Burns picked up the medication from the pharmacy and slipped the bottle inside his interior jacket pocket, then went back to his office. When he opened the door, he found Smithers sleeping with his head on the desk as the phone rang. "Ahem," said Burns, but Smithers didn't stir. "Smithers!" he said, urgently trying to get his attention. He made it to the desk before Smithers awoke and answered the phone himself. "Ahoy-hoy?" He pulled the phone away from his face and set it back on the receiver, and at that moment Smithers suddenly awoke, snapping himself upright. "Whoever it was hung up."

"I'm sorry," he said, yawning. "I'm just so tired."

"Never mind. If it's important, they'll call back." He placed his hand on Smithers' shoulder. "Why don't you take a nap in the Executive Lounge?" As Smithers opened his mouth to say something, Burns said, "I'll show you where it is," and started steering Smithers' chair to the Executive Lounge, showing him to a pair of couches. He helped Smithers into one couch, then sat on the adjacent one, panting from the effort of helping push him. "I could use a nap myself." He lay back, then fell asleep almost immediately, Smithers soon following him.

Burns woke up to see Smithers sleeping on the couch beside him. He glanced at a clock on the wall. _Five o'clock._ Time for a well-deserved break from a long day of hard work. He poked Smithers' shoulder in an attempt to stir him, but Smithers continued to snore obliviously, and Burns decided not to wake him. _We still have time before we need to leave for dinner._ He availed himself of the facilities, then went to his desk to get some actual work done. After twenty minutes passed, Burns went back to wake him. He tried shaking him by the shoulder, but Smithers' eyes only fluttered open for a few seconds before shutting again. He tried rubbing the backs of his wrists, but Smithers hardly stirred. Burns looked behind his back, then kissed his cheek. Smithers' lips turned upward in a smile, and his eyes opened.

"It's about time you woke up, you slugabed," he said in an affectionate scolding. "Now hurry up and get ready."

"What?" Smithers looked to his phone and opened his eyes wide at the time displayed on the screen. "I can't believe I slept that long."

"You can make it up to me later by doing overtime. Now, comb your hair. I don't want to be seen dining with a slob."

Smithers took a comb from Burns and began to comb his hair. "How long does it take to get there?"

Burns said, "About fifteen minutes."

"Let's go," said Smithers, moving himself into his wheelchair. They went to the Astrowagon, and once Smithers was in, Burns got behind the wheel. "I confess I'm a little nervous. It feels as if this really is our first date to me."

"Yes, it feels a little like that to me, too." Cars continued to pass him by, honking, as he maintained a speed of fifteen to twenty miles per hour. After one truck passed him on the left with a prolonged honk, Burns leaned out the window and yelled, "Oh, shut up!" He turned to Smithers and said, "Honestly, I never realized before how many terrible drivers are on the road."

"Um, Monty," said Smithers, pointing out the front windshield, "we're in the middle of two lanes."

"Hm? Oh, yes, so we are." He drifted into the left lane. "I hope all that slumbering left you with a big appetite."

"I am pretty hungry, now that you mention it."

"Good. You can have whatever you want."

"Can I pre-order a kiss for dessert?"

"I told you, we can't express ourselves physically. Not in public."

"Oh, right." Burns glanced at Smithers and his disappointed eyes and felt a heaviness in his chest. "Are you sure you aren't ready to be out?"

"We're already out on the road; what more can you ask for?"

"No, I mean, maybe it's time we be open about our relationship."

"You must be joking. I can't possibly face the ridicule and condemnation. Not only because we're both men, but to be seen stepping out with my lackey..."

"Oh, Monty," he said, rubbing Burns' shoulder, "I understand. But people have gotten a lot more accepting in the last few decades. I think you'd be pleasantly surprised at the reaction."

Burns stared off into the distance, recalling a time when he was an adolescent and his grandfather had caught him and his best friend kissing in his room, and he had been forbidden from ever seeing or speaking of him again. He looked downcast as he stopped at an intersection mid-way through the crosswalk, nearly hitting some pedestrians. "I would dearly like to believe that."

"Don't worry, I won't give up your secret," he said, running his hand down Burns' side. "But please, think about it."

"For heaven's sake, what would your mother think?"

"She said she's rooting for us now."

"Your mother said that?"

"I know she's had her problems with you, but yes. That's what she told me."

"You mean to say your mother knows we are... involved?"

"Yes."

"And she's fine with it?"

"In her way."

Burns sighed in relief. "Thank heavens. I can't say how much I've fretted over the possibility of her finding out."

"If she can get used to us being together, then anyone can."

Burns stared out thoughtfully as he considered the possibility. He heard Dr. Hibbert's voice saying, _Anyone with eyes can see it._ He pictured himself changing his relationship status on Facebook to "In a relationship with Waylon Smithers" and reporters knocking on his door and tabloid paparazzi snapping candid pictures of them strolling the garden accompanied by salacious headlines. His contemplation was interrupted by the car behind him honking. Finally seeing the light had turned green, Burns stepped on the gas pedal. "Promise me you'll be discreet tonight."

"I told you I will. I hate having to hide my affection for you, though."

"Well, there will be no need to hide any affection when we get home tonight," he said, resting his hand on Smithers' thigh, an amorous glimmer in his eye. His eyes shot wide open as he remembered that he still hadn't taken one of his pills yet. _No matter. I'll excuse myself to the men's room when we get there._ "Well, here we are," he said, pulling in front of The Gilded Truffle, then hastily moving his hand off Smithers' thigh as he stopped in front of the valet. He handed the key to the valet and went inside with Smithers.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

The waiter approached and showed them to their table, then handed them the menu. "Tonight's special is duck à l'orange and the soup special is a Tuscan herb and vegetable medley."

"I'll have the Greek salad and the lobster," said Smithers after a moment looking over his menu.

"And you, sir?" said the waiter, turning to Burns.

"I'll have the specials."

"Excellent choices," said their waiter, taking the menus back. "And your wine selection?"

"I'm in the mood to celebrate tonight. How does champagne sound to you, Smithers?"

"Sounds great," said Smithers.

"We'll have the Veuve Clicquot," said Burns, handing back the wine list.

"Right away," said the waiter as he left.

Burns started to get up and said, "Excuse me while I slip off to the men's room."

"Oh, I have to go, too."

 _I hadn't considered that_. "You should go first. After all, you're still recovering."

"Thanks, but I'm sure there will be room for–"

"Yes, but I wouldn't want to crowd you." Smithers shrugged and headed for the men's room, and once he'd entered, Burns grabbed a nearby waiter's forearm, saying, "I need a glass of water." The waiter handed him one of the glasses of water he had on his tray, and Burns took it in his hand, got out his pills, and popped one in his mouth, followed by a quick swallow of water. After taking a few more swigs of water, he realized he actually did desperately need to use the restroom. He swiftly walked to the door and entered, making a quick dash for the nearest urinal. Smithers soon came out of a stall, and he stood and leaned against the counter, and they washed their hands beside each other. "Here, let me help you," said Burns, rubbing soap into Smithers' hands and gently scrubbing under the flow of warm water. Smithers eased back into his chair while Burns got a hand towel for each of them and handed one to Smithers.

"Thanks," he said, patting his hands dry.

"It's what any boss would do for his infirm employee." He glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone's feet were poking out beneath stall doors, lowered his eyelids, and said, "But this is not," as he curled his fingers around Smithers' bow tie and leaned forward to kiss his lips. He brought his other hand to the back of Smithers' neck as they kissed, swirling his fingertips, then withdrew as swiftly as he'd approached. Burns' cheeks were still flushed red when they left the bathroom and sat back at their table.

The waiter brought them Burns' soup and Smithers' salad along with their champagne. "Please enjoy," he said, then left them.

Burns poured a glass of champagne for Smithers and then one for himself. "To you, Waylon," he said, then tipped his glass to clink it against Smithers'.

"To you, Monty," he said as their glasses touched. Each took a sip from his glass, eyes fixed on each other. "So, did we come here often?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, we dined here on a weekly basis." He sipped his champagne again. "Although, truth be told, I prefer your cooking. I never realized how much until I had to go weeks without it."

Smithers took a bite of his salad. "You like my cooking that much?"

"Yes," said Burns, pausing to blow on his soup. "Your cooking is excellent."

"What did I make that you liked most?"

"Hm. Let me think... your pumpkin pies are scrumptious, always the part of Thanksgiving I look forward to the most. You make superb Cornish hens. And a roast pheasant that is to die for."

"Did you ever make anything for me?"

" _Make_ anything? Why would _I_ make anything for _you_?"

Smithers' eyes widened, taken aback. "I don't know, to be nice."

"Nice, eh?" Burns tapped his fingertips anxiously along the tablecloth at the edge of the table, his eyes darting to the floor. "I haven't spent much time in a kitchen, but I have always hired expert bakers and cake decorators to make your birthday cakes. I try to outdo myself every year. Last year, your cake was so tall it required a zoning permit."

"Aw," said Smithers, shoveling a forkful of lettuce and feta into his mouth. "You know how to make a moment feel special."

"Yes..." Burns bit his lower lip. _Damn it, I forgot to hire the violinists._ "Excuse me for a moment," he said, sliding his chair back and standing, then approaching the violinists. In a hushed voice, he slipped them a couple of twenties and said, "Come play for my table. I'm in the mood to hear the sappiest, most romantic music you can think of." He sat back in his chair, and as the violinists approached, playing a tune dripping with sentimentality, Burns said, "Oh, look, the violin men are playing for us. I wonder who could have arranged such a thing?" he said coyly.

"It was probably the kindest man in Springfield."

In frustration, Burns spluttered before finally saying, "I know your glasses are thick, but how could you be so blind? It was _me_! _I_ hired them!"

"I meant you, sweetheart," he said, gently letting him know he was worked up over nothing.

"Oh. Of course." He dabbed at beads of sweat on his forehead with his napkin, then flashed a warning scowl at him. In an angry whisper through gritted teeth, he said, "And I am not your sweetheart."

"I'm sorry," said Smithers, quietly apologetic, ashamed at his slip-up. "I'll try to remember that." They proceeded to eat their soup and salad, silent save the maudlin melody emanating from violin strings. "I hope I didn't ruin the evening."

"Just eat, Smithers."

"I did, didn't I?"

"No, but you just might if you keep prattling on about this."

"I'll try not to prattle."

Burns watched as Smithers kept his head down and tried to mask his hurt. Seeing only a hint of the tumult in his mind spurred a strange quivering in Burns' own chest. "Waylon..." He put his hand on Smithers' shoulder. "This evening wouldn't be anything without you." He lifted his champagne glass, said, "To you," and clinked it against Smithers' glass still sitting stationary on the table. He brought his glass to his lips, but seeing Smithers hadn't lifted his own glass, Burns reached across the table and manually folded Smithers' hand over the stem of his glass and guided it up toward his lips. "To you," he said again, and they both sipped.

"So tell me more about my last birthday party."

"I hired Stephen Sondheim to write you a song." Smithers gasped deeply. "And I sang it while he played it on the piano."

"I'll have to hear it. Again, that is."

"Yes, again." Burns' eyes darted and he began to sweat, tugging at his collar as he said, "And so you shall. Later."

The waiter brought in their meals. "Bon appetit."

Smithers took a bite of his lobster. "Mm. This is fantastic."

"Good, I'm glad you're enjoying it."

"How's your duck?"

Burns took a bite. "It's sumptuous."

"Great, great." After another bite of his lobster, he said, "You've told me a lot about our past together."

"And every word of it is true," said Burns hastily.

"But you must have some interesting stories from before I knew you. Any memorable stories from college?"

"I must have regaled you with tales of my college days a thousand times."

"Not since the accident."

"Oh, that's right," he said, his eyes lighting up. "I'll regale you with stories of my days wrestling at Yale. You always loved to hear me talk about that."

"I'd love to hear about that," said Smithers, leaning forward.

"I wrestled in the etherweight class. Once, I was grappling with a Stanford man, attired in tights but bare-chested, and upon taking him down, there was an 'unseemly exposure' as the Yale Daily News put it. From that time, support garments were mandatory."

Smithers slightly gasped and put his hand over his mouth, partly out of surprise and partly to conceal the blush forming on his face as he pictured a young Monty Burns holding the unnamed shirtless man in a clinch. "The, uh, unseemly exposure, was that –"

"It was him." Burns sipped from his champagne, staring in satisfaction at Smithers' obviously titillated expression, then giving him a sly smile. "Should I suspect you were hoping for a different answer?"

"Ah, no, of course not. Who won?"

"I did," he said proudly, for once telling the truth. "I pinned him to the mat, and I watched mirthfully as he squirmed beneath me." He chuckled to himself, relishing his long ago victory, then leaned forward and whispered, "Will I get to see you squirm tonight?"

Smithers whispered in his ear, "Only if you pin me down and make me."

The hairs on the back of Burns' neck stood up. "I assure you, my skill in that department hasn't faded with my age. I shan't disappoint you."

Smiling giddily, he said, "I'm sure you won't," as Burns leaned back against his seat. "Do you have any other college stories for me?"

"Well, there was the time I absconded with George Washington's skull."

"Wait, you did what?"

"I've said too much." He darted his eyes back and forth. "Besides, that's a surprisingly grim and boring story. Why don't I tell you instead about the time my pal Edgar and I played a prank on my roommate Dink?"

"I'm all ears."

"Dink drove a green 1910 Cadillac Model 30. I bought a car of the same make, color, and model, and Edgar disassembled it. Dink was a notoriously heavy sleeper, so during the night, we brought in various parts from the duplicate car and distributed them throughout our dormitory room. When Dink finally woke up, he let out a blood-curdling scream, thinking someone had destroyed his car. I let him panic and rage for a good hour and a half before finally telling him what happened."

Smithers laughed. "I can only imagine the look on his face."

"It was glorious."

Enthralled, Smithers said, "Tell me more," cupping his face in his hands in rapt attention, his lobster all but forgotten.

Burns hummed in delight. _All my old stories are new to him. He's hanging on my every word. Now's your chance, Monty. Captivate him._ "In my twenties, I hosted many a magnificent party, each filled with fabulous celebrities and self-indulgent gadabouts. They were full of daring, dancing, and drinking. The glitz and glamour of my soirees made me the envy of every obscenely wealthy pleasure-seeker this side of the Atlantic. I would say the world over, but Cole Porter always did like to show me up, even while we were at Yale. Let me tell you about –"

"You knew Cole Porter at Yale?"

"Oh, yes. In the twenties, I attended some of his parties in Paris."

"Tell me about it."

"They were extremely lavish affairs, and I indulged in such debauchery as I'd never dreamed of before. As much as I'm loathe to admit it, they were hideously fun."

"Now you have to give me details."

"You should know by now that a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."

"Oh, so you had that kind of fun."

"This really tickles you, doesn't it?"

"I'm not jealous, if that's what you think. I know that was before we knew each other."

"Indeed, it was before you were born."

"You'll tell me about it when we get home, won't you?"

"Yes."

Smithers waved down their waiter. "Check, please," he said, taking a gulp of his champagne.

"Now? You've only had half of your lobster," said Burns.

"I'm not interested in food as much as being alone with you," he said, his voice getting quiet.

"I see." Burns dug into his wallet and slapped a couple of hundreds on the table, then placed his hand on Smithers' shoulder. "Let's go, then." He ran, pushing Smithers' chair forward, already exhausted by the time they reached the door. _I mustn't quit now,_ he thought as his legs wobbled and he slowed to a walk. _I can't let him think I lack stamina._ He helped Smithers into the passenger seat and then jumped behind the wheel, starting the ignition. Smithers put his hand on Burns' thigh. "Please, you'll distract me."

Smithers moved his hand. "Sorry. I'm just looking forward to getting home."

"So am I, Waylon. So am I."

Smithers leaned his head back against the headrest, his eyes closed as the Astrowagon turned onto the road en route to Burns Manor. "So tell me about some of these flings you had at parties."

"They weren't flings, really. It was more of an impromptu explosion of yearning and raw lust."

"So what we're going to experience tonight?"

"No," said Burns sharply. "Great heavens, no." _Does he really think our relationship is all about sex?_ "That's not what tonight is about, at all."

"Then what's it about?"

"Oh, you know the litany of sentimental drivel a man recites to the one he loves."

"That's not very romantic."

"Well, get used to it. I'm hardly some young daydreamer wistfully composing sonnets to woo the object of my affection."

"I can see."

Burns sighed and placed his hand on Smithers' thigh. "But I know you are romantically inclined, so I'll take another crack at making bathetic overtures."

When they arrived, Burns helped Smithers up the ramp to the door and let him inside. Once the door was closed behind them, Burns stroked Smithers' shoulder with a feather touch. A chill went down Smithers' spine, and Burns could feel him shudder beneath his fingertips. He let his fingers lazily explore the back of his neck and shoulder, lingering when Smithers softly moaned. "Monty," he said dreamily, "I hate to interrupt you, but we should get outside."

"Outside? Why would we go outside?"

"To dance beneath the stars. Just like our first date."

"Don't be silly. You can't dance; you can barely stand."

"Trust me, Monty." He propelled himself down the hall toward the garden, and Burns followed him. When they stepped out into the garden, Burns saw a record player set up outside. Smithers stood up from his chair, leaning on the table holding the record player. As Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 8 in C Minor began to play, Smithers reached out a hand. "Fancy a dance with me?"

Burns smiled and clasped Smithers' hand in his. "I'd love a dance with you." He brought his other hand around Smithers' waist and drew him closer, and they began to sway to the music, their chests a centimeter closer with every measure until they were pressed against each other, each with his head on the other's shoulder. _I can feel his heart beat against mine._ Nothing soothed him as rapidly or as completely as sharing an embrace with Smithers. "Oh," said Burns in a quiet moan as his body relaxed, melted against Smithers. Smithers kissed along the nape of his neck, up to where his hair ended, then along his jaw and up to his lips, whereupon he tentatively separated Burns' lips with his tongue before kissing him deeply. When their lips again parted, Burns said, "I want to make love with you." He lowered his hands and squeezed Smithers' buttocks, throwing him off-balance and backwards into his chair, Burns toppling on top of him.

"Then let's go." Smithers squeezed Burns' bottom and scooped him up, holding him more comfortably in his lap, then moved the wheels to guide them back to the mansion interior, making his way to Burns' bedroom.

When they reached the bedroom, Smithers laid Burns on the silky burgundy sheets before getting up and joining him. Burns sat up, tense with worry as Smithers draped his arms around Burns' chest from behind, running his hands over Burns. "Waylon, are you sure this is what you want?"

Kissing Burns' cheek, Smithers said, "I'm ready to start being physical with you again."

"In that case..." Burns kissed him deeply, leaning him back onto the mattress, then kissing across his cheek and down his neck as he untied Smithers' bow tie and shirt buttons. He moved his head back to get a look at him as he adjusted his position on the bed, then kissed him from the top of his chest downward as he unfastened the buttons. "Oh, Smithers, no," he said, turning away. "I can't do this." _I can't use my one and only friend for a night of carnal delights._

"What's wrong?" said Smithers, touching his shoulder. "If you're worried about performance –"

"I am not worried about my performance! It's you!"

"Me?"

"I can't do this with you."

"Oh. I understand."

"You don't understand half of it."

"I may have lost my memories, but I'm not an idiot! I understand perfectly well. I'm not attractive enough for you anymore." He clutched the blanket to his bare chest.

"No, Waylon, as usual, you miss the point."

"As usual. Because clearly I'm too stupid to see what's going on when my partner won't even make love to me." _He has the money and the looks to be with anyone he wants. He could be with someone younger, more attractive, in better shape... He's probably only staying with me out of a sense of loyalty to the man who saved his life._

"I do want you."

"Yeah, right. If you really wanted me, you'd be tearing my clothes off and letting me lick whipped cream off you by now."

"Do I have to sleep with you to prove you excite me?"

"Yes!"

"Very well, then! I'm just going to have to pin you and make you writhe in pleasure, then."

"Fine by me!"

Burns pulled his own tie loose, then unraveled it and tossed it aside. "Get ready for the lovemaking of your life." He pulled his arms out of his jacket and tossed it on top of his tie, and Smithers seductively rolled his jacket sleeves off his arms, letting his jacket crumple beside him on the bed.

"I had the servants put a mini-fridge in here," he said, motioning to the black mini-fridge by the nightstand on Burns' side. Burns opened its door and saw a couple of cans of spray whipped cream. "I thought we could have fun tasting each other. You know, like we talked about." Burns reached over and grabbed a can. "I was thinking we'd do that, then I would go down on you, then you could fuck me."

"You have this all planned out, don't you?"

"I haven't had much else to think about lately." He teased the button of Burns' trousers, slowly unfastening it. "So how does that sound?"

Burns sprayed some whipped cream along one of his rib cages. "It sounds like it's time for you to start licking."

* * *

An hour later, they lay beside each other, a satin blanket pulled up over their waists, Burns' arm draped over Smithers' chest as he stroked along Smithers' spine near his neck. Smithers, a look of bliss plastered on his face, started to giggle.

"What is it?" said Burns suspiciously.

"Nothing. It's just you still have whipped cream by your lip," he said, then leaned forward to lick it off, and Burns caught his lips in another kiss.

Burns held Smithers closer to himself, his nose pressed against the back of his neck as he deeply inhaled his scent. "I love you, Waylon." He kissed Smithers' neck. "I really do."

"I love you, too, Monty."

Burns' heart skipped a beat. "Do you really mean it?"

"Yes, I do." Smithers stroked along Burns' ribs to his hip and back. "It felt like we were really making love for the first time."

"Yes, it seemed that way to me, too." Burns drew a long breath and slowly released it, cuddling up with Smithers. "It was everything a first time should be – messy and awkward and sublime." _To think we could have missed out on this had he perished..._ He shut his eyes, holding back a tear, and pressed his cheek tightly against Smithers'. Brushes with death were something he held intimate knowledge of. "I love you, Waylon."

"I know you do," he said, kissing Burns' nose. "You told me that thirty seconds ago. My memory isn't that awful."

"I know it isn't," he snapped. "I was trying to be sentimental." He stroked the back of Smithers' head. "There's no telling when either of us will go."

"Don't worry about that stuff. Focus on enjoying the moment," said Smithers, tickling Burns' ribs. He kissed Burns' chest. "I know, almost dying and forgetting about you really scared me, but we can't let that fear ruin what we have now."

"That's easier to say at your age. Death has stalked me for at least the last twenty years, and it's no easy feat to ignore his cold hand hovering over my shoulder."

Smithers kissed his shoulder. "Does this make it easier?"

"Yes, it does," he said, then kissed Smithers' lips. "You make it easier."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

"Our profit projections show a steady increase over this quarter..." An executive continued to speak in front of the board for the power plant in a meeting room to many bored yet attentive faces. Mr. Burns giggled, prompting one or two people to turn their heads his way, then revert their attention to the executive's financial slideshow. A few minutes later, Burns giggled again, leading a few more executives to glance at him and see his gaze was fixed on his phone, his thumbs close together as he texted. Five minutes later, Burns broke out in guffaws loud enough that the executive speaking trailed off, then said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Burns. Is there something funny about my report?"

"Hm?" Burns lifted his head from his phone screen, puzzled. "Oh, yes, the report. Carry on." As the executive resumed his prepared speech, Burns continued to text and giggle. Smithers was sending pictures of himself that had been altered to look silly, from adding floppy dog ears to the sides of his face to transforming his face to look like that of an alien. He also shared GIFs and videos of funny animal antics, and they texted jokes to each other. The tenor of their conversation changed when Smithers brought up their previous night's activities.

 _Has anyone noticed the hickey I gave you last night?_

 _A few have done double-takes._

 _No one would suspect my own right-hand man is the one who gave it to me._

 _I wish I was up to going back to work. I'm just too tired for it._

 _You weren't too tired last night._

 _You were pretty energetic, too. ;)_

 _It was such a delight to see you writhe and moan for me._

 _I loved hearing you moan for me, too._

 _I'm not distracting you from work, am I?_

 _You are, but the distraction is welcome._

 _How do you like this distraction?_

Smithers sent a picture of his face and torso, his shirt unbuttoned at the top.

 _I like it a lot._

 _How about this?_

Smithers sent a picture of himself shirtless.

 _It's good the room is dark because you're making me blush._

 _Your photographs are chock full of sex appeal._

 _I'm glad you like them. ;)_

 _Maybe on your next break, you can send me some sexy pics._

 _It's a tantalizing proposition._

Burns surreptitiously lowered the camera below the desk and pulled his pant leg up, exposing his sock and a little bit of his ankle.

 _Ooh la la._

 _I can't get away at the moment, but until the meeting is over, you can amuse yourself on www. Sexymontypics .com_

(*¬*)

 _Wait, why do you have a website of sexy pics of yourself?_

 _It was your idea._

 _Oh, now it makes sense._

 _O_O_

 _8D_

 _I take it you're looking at the site now?_

 _Yes._

 _I'm looking at it on my MyPad._

 _Why didn't you tell me about this site weeks ago?_

 _I'm glad you're enjoying it._

 _All the wasted hours..._

 _I forgot about that site until you asked for pictures._

 _I especially like the ones of the feather fan dance._

 _Do you ever show the full Monty?_

 _No, what do you think I'm running, some sort of digital bordello?_

 _I know you're skilled at certain other digital manipulations. ;)_

 _You liked that, eh?_

 _Oh, yes._

 _Mm. Hot!_

 _Another pic?_

 _You should wear leather more often._

 _Duly noted._

The meeting adjourned as Burns continued texting Smithers about his suggestive photographs, oblivious to the fact the other executives were disbanding until one came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. Burns startled, fumbling with his phone and dropping it onto the floor, then diving for it, hoping to cover up the screen until he could press the screen lock button. "What is it, Perkins?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to startle you. I know Mr. Smithers has been on your mind, and –"

Burns gasped. "Who told you I've been texting him?"

"Uh – nobody, sir, but I know you're eager for him to get back to work –"

"Which is what you should do!"

"I was just going to ask how he's doing."

"Oh. He's on the mend." After Perkins left, Burns said under his breath, "And how," then growled. He left the conference room to stalk the halls, keeping the workers on their toes. His effort to intimidate the employees quickly deflated when Smithers started sending him cute cat memes and Burns began giggling at them in the halls. "Isn't that precious? That cat is clutching the ball of yarn as if it were a bag of money."

Lenny, Carl, and Homer stood nearby at the break room sipping coffee and eating donuts. "Boy," said Homer, "Mr. Burns has been acting nutty today."

Carl said, "Yeah, I think he's on some new medication that's making him act cuckoo. I saw him at the pharmacy yesterday during lunch."

Lenny said, "Nah. He's been texting someone all day and acting twitterpated. I think Mr. Burns is in love with a woman."

Burns turned sharply around. "I am not in love with Waylon!"

Carl said, "Oh, so now it's Waylon."

"I meant Smithers! I meant no one! Lenny, you're fired!"

Lenny said, "I didn't even mean that! I assumed you were in love with some _woman_."

Burns slapped his hand over his own face, trying to cover his blushing cheeks as he slipped out of the break room and ran into his office. He closed the door behind him and leaned back against the wall, taking a deep breath. "All right, Monty. No need to panic. They don't know you slept with Smithers. They don't know we've been talking dirty over e-telegraphic communications all day." His phone alerted him to another text from Smithers. He held his phone up and read it:

 _That picture of you dressed as a firefighter really does it for me._

 _As well it should. I know how to handle a hose._

 _Do you ever! Here's one for you._

Smithers sent a picture of himself in his boxers lying on Burns' bed, posing.

 _I hope you like it. ^_-_

 _When do the shorts come off?_

 _When you get home, fireman._

Burns' cheeks flushed. "Oh, my..." He locked his office door, then drew the window curtains and undid the top buttons of his shirt, revealing a tuft of chest hair. He jumped into his chair and posed seductively, an arm draped over his head, as the chair spun. He took a picture of himself, then sent it to Smithers.

 _Yes_

 _More please_

Burns was already taking off his shirt and jacket. He took off his belt, then shuffled out of his pants. In only his underwear and sock garters, he posed on his desk, tugging at the corner of his underwear, and took a picture of himself.

 _Hot_

Burns thought of how Smithers had sounded the night before, how he had felt in his arms, how he had felt wholly connected to his long-time partner, body and mind, in a way he hadn't dreamt was possible with another person, not even with Smithers. How he longed just to be close to him again.

 _I want to hear you speak to me._

 _You're in your office now, right?_

 _Yes._

 _I can call you._

Burns' phone rang, and he picked it up. "Ahoy-hoy?"

Smithers audibly smiled. "It's me, silly."

"So, you were thinking of me when you took those pictures?"

"I wouldn't think of anyone else."

"Tell me you want me, Waylon."

"Oh, Monty, I want you."

"Again."

"I want you." After a moment, Smithers said, "Do you have any idea how sexy you look?"

"Give me an idea."

"You don't know how much I'd been looking forward to finally seeing you naked."

"And you liked what you saw?"

"Does this ring a bell?" Smithers moaned.

"Yes, it does. Moan for me again." Smithers moaned again. "Yes, that's the ticket. Oh, Waylon. I can't wait to kiss you again, to feel your skin against mine, to feel truly alive again." Burns threw his head back against his chair and closed his eyes in relish of the memory. "I crave you, I need you. I want you inside me. Make me alive."

"Oh, Monty, I crave you, too. I could lick every inch of you and still want more."

"Didn't you do that last night?" He chuckled with a sly smirk on his face.

"Yes, I did," said Smithers with a chuckle. "And I still want more."

"I'll give you more. I'll give you more until you have every piece of me." He smiled, replaying the previous night in his mind. "You've earned it more than any bonus I've given you."

"I promise to work hard for you," he said slyly. "Very hard."

"And if you don't work hard, I just may have to crack the whip."

"I know you try to look like a hard ass at work, but I know you have a soft touch in bed."

"You're eager to get me back there, eh?"

"I was thinking tonight, you could show me some pictures of the cake from my last birthday, or a recording of the song you had Sondheim write for me, and then we could go for round two in the love ring. This time I just might pin you down."

"Mm, sounds delish – wait, what song? And what cake?"

"The song you sang to me on my birthday? The one you had Sondheim write for me. And my birthday cake. You told me all about it last night."

"Oh, yes! Of course! _That_ song. And the cake..." _Great heavens, the cake._

"I'd love to hear it, especially coming from your honeyed voice."

"Oh, why, yes, that – that could be easily arranged!" Sweat drenching his face as he grew dizzy, he said, "I now have to go attend to some completely unrelated matter – yes, that's right."

"Oh, that's too bad. I guess you have to get some work done eventually."

"How good of you to understand! Lots of love, ta!" He hung up his phone, then said in a frantic whisper, "How in the hell am I going to produce evidence of a birthday party I never threw him?" Burns looked through his Rolodex, then dialed his telephone. "Is this Stephen Sondheim? ... Excellent. I'm calling because I need to commission a song from you. ... It's for someone very dear to me, who has been convalescing in my home for the last several months after pushing me out of the path of an approaching car. ... I have in mind something of a more romantic nature. ... I need it in the next few hours. ... I thought you might say that, but it is imperative I have a recording of this song before I go home to him tonight. ... I understand this is short notice, but I simply must have this song. My partner is one of your biggest fans, and I told him I would have you write a song for him and I would sing it. Name your price, and I shall pay it."

* * *

On a plane en route to Springfield, Sondheim spoke to Burns over the phone. "What kind of song do you want it to be?"

"I told you earlier, a love song."

"You don't want me to write something generic and schmaltzy. Tell me what you love about him."

"I love his sycophantic smile."

"That's a... start. What about some of your favorite memories together?"

"Well... One night we were working late, and while he was working in his office, I fell asleep at my desk. When I woke up, he'd draped a blanket around me and moved me to a settee while he worked on our budget at my desk, using his phone for light so the office would be dim and not perturb me. After I watched him awhile, he stood, and I shut my eyes as if I were still asleep. He walked over to me and knelt beside me, and I heard him whisper, _'I can't believe how beautiful you are,'_ then stroke my cheek with the lightest of touches and pull my blankets back up to my neck. It struck me at my core, for he thought I was sleeping, so surely he wasn't attempting to flatter me. I opened my eyes, and he startled, then set his hand on my shoulder and told me he'd finished our quarterly report, then asked whether I wanted him to drive me home.

"On our way home, I asked him, _'Do you really find me beautiful?'_ and through the rear window, I saw his face flush as he realized I must have heard him. Finally, he said, _'I don't just_ find _you beautiful, sir. You_ are _beautiful.'_ It was the first time I realized he truly saw beauty in me."

"Tell me more about him."

"You don't have all day to write this song, so I suggest you shut up and start."

"Do you want me to write this song for him or not?"

"I must have this song."

"Then I suggest you let me write it the way I want."

Burns sighed, resigned. "All right." He picked up a framed photograph of Smithers and himself taken at his hundredth birthday party from his desk. His eyes brightened, and he said, "He's nice, yet formidable. That's a rare combination. He's so dedicated to excellence and loyal to me, whether he's preparing my taxes or baking me a cake. He'll go to the ends of the earth to satisfy a fleeting whim of mine. Whenever I'm with him, he makes me feel like the most important man in the world. I've always been able to trust him implicitly..." he trailed off, gulping in a twinge of guilt over his current plan to deceive him.

"Great, that's very helpful."

Burns went on: "One time we were on the top of a Ferris wheel, and he held on to me. As a fierce gale blew, he held me tighter, and I felt so happy in his arms, I felt a deep sadness when the wind subsided and he loosened his grasp of me. It wasn't until the drive home that I realized I wanted to hold him again. I told him I was exhausted from our day out and would need him to carry me to my bed. He lifted me up in his arms, and I held him snugly the whole way to my bed. When we got there, we sat on the edge of my bed as I reluctantly withdrew my arms, and then he tucked me into bed. As he was about to leave, I called his name, hoping to keep him longer. I couldn't think of anything to say to keep him, so I barked at him to get me some tea. When he returned, I feigned sleep, and he stroked the back of my hand so gently it sent a shiver of delight down my spine, and I couldn't help but smile. Another time, he took us out in a swan boat when the city had been flooded, and I daydreamed about kissing him..."

Burns spoke at length with him about his feelings for Smithers that he'd kept buried. "...And you haven't lived until you've had his pumpkin pie."

"All right, Mr. Burns, I think I have enough to work with to write a song for him," said Mr. Sondheim, beginning to regret opening this particular floodgate.

"I cannot stress enough that your song _must_ be excellent. He's a truly excellent man."

"Of course. I'll call you when the plane lands."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

After texting with Burns, Smithers got a call from his mother. "Oh, hello, mother."

"How are you doing?"

"I'm doing great."

"You're making good progress with your exercises?"

"Yes, very good progress."

"So, Mr. Burns is treating you well?"

"Very well. We went out to dinner last night, and, well, he treated me very well." Smithers grinned, giggling giddily.

Sensing what her son was alluding to, she said, "I hope he was gentle with you. I know you've made a lot of progress, but you're still recovering."

"If anything, _I_ had to be gentle with _him_." He adjusted his position on the bed to sit up more. "But no, he was very good to me. And it was about time. I was getting worried he wasn't attracted to me anymore."

"Why would you think he's not attracted to you?"

"He's obscenely wealthy. He could have almost anyone he wants. We were first intimate twenty years ago, and I'm not twenty-five anymore. I keep asking myself, _What does he want with me, an average, schlubby middle-aged guy who needs help doing almost everything? What if he decides he's bored with me and wants to leave me for a hot twenty-five-year-old?_ "

"You're not schlubby. You're a smart, professional man, and your disability is temporary. You'll be self-sufficient before you know it."

"I know my condition will continue to improve. But how do I know I'm not going to have lasting problems? The doctors said that could happen, and it's been a couple of months and I remember hardly anything more about Monty than the day I left the hospital."

"You can't know what the future holds. Try to think positively. And as for Monty – he's lucky to have you, regardless of your health. He's hardly the picture of health, himself."

"Sometimes I think he just stays with me because he doesn't want to abandon his lover who risked his life for him."

"Waylon, don't say that."

"He wanted me when I was twenty-five and strong, and now I need help to get around, and I can't even remember how to get to the bathroom. My boyfriend is 104 years old, but my mind and body are still more feeble than his. Let's face it, I'm not his trophy boyfriend anymore."

"Do you really think he was only after your looks?"

"I guess not, but... he hesitated to make love so many times, and right before we did, he almost backed out, saying, ' _I can't do this_ ,' and he specifically said it was because of me."

"He was probably worried about hurting you. I remember when I saw him at the hospital after the accident, and it was obvious he loves you. I don't think he'd want to leave you."

"Oh. That makes sense." Smithers grimaced. "Oh, I feel like such a dope, now."

"Honey, you have no reason to feel like a dope."

"I acted so insecure around him last night. I feel so foolish now."

"I'm sure he understands."

"You're probably right. My God, he's an amazing man. He actually rubbed elbows with Cole Porter. Did you know that?"

"No, but it doesn't surprise me."

"He's always doing sweet things for me. He told me about how he tries to top my birthday party every year, and how last year the cake he had made for me was so big it needed a permit!"

"Oh?"

"Yes, and he also got Stephen Sondheim to write me a song! He sang it to me while lying on the piano Mr. Sondheim himself was playing."

"You said this was during your last birthday party?"

"That's what Monty said." Detecting an uncomfortable silence on her end, he said, "Why, you don't believe him?"

"I don't know what to believe," she said, flustered. "You called me on your last birthday, and you had told me over and over not to bring you a birthday cake, because Mr. Burns said he would bring one to your house after work. I still made you one, and I was glad I did when I got your call around ten that night. You were devastated he hadn't come, and you told me you had told your friends not to throw you a party because you were looking forward to spending the evening with him. You still held out some hope he would come, but I drove there anyway with the cake I made for you. When I got there with the cake, you broke down. You were so crushed, and you didn't have any appetite for the cake I'd brought, and you told me to take it with me when I left so it wouldn't remind you of the cake Mr. Burns didn't bring. After comforting you for over an hour, I was so mad, after I left your apartment, I drove to his mansion, told him I had the cuff links you'd told me he'd lost in your apartment a few days earlier, and when he opened the door, I shoved the cake into his face and drove off. I got to the car before the hounds caught up with me because they stopped to lick the frosting off his face."

"What are you saying? That he didn't really have a cake made for me, or a song?"

She sighed. "I can't say for sure either way. You kept every aspect of your relationship hidden, so I don't know what to believe. Maybe he felt so guilty after I shoved the cake into his face that he commissioned an elaborate cake and a song for you the next day. Maybe he had already thrown you an elaborate party earlier in the day, and you just pretended to be devastated. I used to think I knew you, but over the years, it's been secret after secret... First, you kept your sexuality a secret – and I don't blame you, I gave you every reason to – then, you concealed a romance with your boss and friend of your late father for _twenty years_ , without giving me a clue that there was anything there but a desperate hope. I would swear your anguish was real, though. You're a terrific actor, but you're no Laurence Olivier."

"I'm sure there has to be a rational explanation for this. I'll ask Monty when he gets home." He bit his lower lip and twiddled his fingers against the mattress. "I have to go now. I'll talk to you later."

"Good-bye. Call me if you ever need to talk."

"I will. Love you, Mom."

"Love you."

Smithers set his phone down on the bed. _I wonder if I have any pictures from the birthday party on my phone._ He picked up his phone and started flipping back through the pictures, wondering, _Huh. Why didn't I think of this earlier?_ It hadn't even occurred to him that he might have pictures on his phone. _Cut yourself some slack, Waylon. You did just have brain surgery and about twenty years of memory loss._

He looked back, seeing pictures from just before the accident – candid pictures of Burns, some meals he was especially proud of, his Malibu Stacy collection, the company picnic, outings with his friends...

Nothing on his birthday, or the week before or after.

 _Maybe we celebrated some other week._ He looked through the photos, the months before and after his birthday, his eyes scanning the same thumbnails over and over. _I must just be missing them._ He scrolled ahead to a picture of some of his friends taken about a week after his birthday, then called Grady.

After a couple of rings, Grady picked up. "Hi, Waylon. How are you?"

"I'm – I'm not sure." He sniffled, then sighed. "I don't know what to believe."

"About what?"

"Grady, do you remember anything about my last birthday?"

"You told us not to throw you a party because you were going to spend the day with Mr. Burns."

"What about the next day?"

"You said he stopped by and apologized."

"Did he get me a cake?"

"I don't think so. Did you check your messages from that day?"

Smithers' eyes opened wide, then he clenched them shut as he threw his head back in frustration that he hadn't thought of something so obvious. "No. I can't believe I didn't think of that."

"Well, you did have a traumatic brain injury."

"I'm going to check them. I'll call you back later."

* * *

"I think we almost have it," said Burns, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "Let's modulate the second verse to A flat major, then D sharp minor."

"That's... an interesting idea." He pretended to note the idea in the margin of the sheet music, actually doodling. "Your husband is a fan of my work, right?"

"Yes, he loves – but he's not my husband." He furrowed his brows in contemplation. "Could that be? Two men wedding each other?"

"Yes, Mr. Burns, two men can marry each other."

"Truly...?"

"Yes. My point is that you're hiring me because he loves my music. If you wanted to give him a song in _your_ style you would have written it yourself instead of flying me out here."

"Oh. Yes, of course. I have to meet with Quimby about the zoning permit, in any event." He turned to leave, then turned back after a few steps. "Would you play back the first verse?"

Sondheim began to play a soulful tune reminiscent of Marry Me A Little from Company.

 _When I wake, when I see you_

 _When I smell the coffee_

 _I crave your sycophantic smile_

Burns turned the corner of his mouth up in a slight smile he couldn't repress. As he left the room, he said under his breath, "Waylon is going to love it."

He drove to Springfield's Town Hall, where he met with Mayor Quimby in his office. As he leaned forward in his chair, Quimby said, "I have your er, zoning permit, back-dated for April 15th." He held it out, then withdrew it as Burns reached for it. "But first, you must tell me why you need this permit back-dated for this date in particular."

"Why? You have your bribe, what difference does it make to you?"

"Because if I'm going to put my ass on the line, I need to make sure I know what's at stake for you."

"What's at stake, eh?" He pulled his lower lip back and bit it.

"It's tax fraud, isn't it?" chimed in Quimby.

"Yes! Yes, that's it," said Burns, jovially latching on to the suggestion.

"Who hasn't dabbled in that er, enterprise?"

"Only those too poor to afford their own tax specialist." He cleared his throat. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to meet with the Photo-shop man."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Smithers stared, fixated on his phone screen as he scanned the messages leading up to his birthday.

 _Are you still planning to make it to my birthday party?_

 _Yes._

 _Great! I can't wait. :)_

 _I have a bottle of champagne for us to share._

 _From the Champagne region?_

 _I wouldn't get anything less for you._

 _Will there be many people there?_

 _Actually, I was planning a more intimate affair._

 _Excellent. I have a special gift for you this year._

 _Any gift from you is special._

 _I picked up your medications from the pharmacy._

 _Your dry cleaning, too. I put them in the medicine cabinet and closet, respectively._

 _Happy birthday, Waylon._

 _I can't wait to see you tonight._

 _You see me every night._

 _Not as a guest in my home._

 _I hope you like your gift this year._

 _I know I will._

* * *

 _It's six o'clock, are you okay, sir?_

 _I've been trying to call you but you won't pick up._

 _You remember where I live, right?_

 _Do you want me to pick you up?_

 _Please, Monty, answer me. Let me know you're okay._

 _I'm coming over to check on you._

 _Don't bother._

 _You're okay! Thank God._

 _Why haven't you answered my texts? I was worried sick._

 _I was expecting you an hour ago._

 _I changed my mind. I'm not coming._

 _Why not?_

 _Maybe I'm sick of your nagging._

 _I just wanted to know you were okay._

 _Or maybe I don't feel like spending my evening in your little hovel._

 _We can celebrate at your house. I'll bring the champagne._

 _Forget it, Smithers._

 _What made you change your mind? Was it something I said?_

 _No._

 _Please, sir. I don't mind if you don't have a gift or a cake for me. All I want for my birthday is to spend tonight with you._

 _Please._

 _Please, sir. I'm begging you._

 _Something must have changed your mind. I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry._

 _For heaven's sake, don't apologize._

 _And don't beg. It's off-putting._

 _Okay. I won't bother you anymore._

Smithers put his phone down for a moment to wipe a tear from his eye, then frantically continued to scroll down to read the messages. The next one was from the morning after.

 _I want to thank you again for my present._

 _It's the least I could do._

Smithers furrowed his brow. _So he did give me a gift after all. But he did blow off my birthday. I guess Mom was right and we had the party the next day after she threw my cake in his face. But what was my present? Was it really the song and cake? And why did he leave me alone on my birthday?_

* * *

Burns looked at the picture of the photo-shopped cake. "I had my reasons..." He shut his eyes and let out a forlorn sigh, then compulsively scrolled back to read over his texts with Smithers in the weeks leading up to his birthday, remembering how his hands had trembled and his heart had raced as their texts and conversations had taken on a more romantic tenor. _I at first dismissed it as my humors becoming unbalanced, until I realized I only felt that way when thinking about being alone with Smithers._ He had been alone with Smithers many times before, and it had never prompted palpitations. "We'd been getting closer..."

He thought back to a particularly stressful day at the office, having just managed to bribe NRC regulators and narrowly avoid much steeper fines, when he had asked Smithers to hold him. It was nothing out of the ordinary for Smithers to provide him the soothing touch of human contact even he came to miss from time to time, but what was out of the ordinary was that he'd been overcome with an urge to kiss him. The thought was so absurd, he assumed it was a passing insanity. It was a sign he was so starved of affection that he would crave it from anyone, even a lowly assistant.

But as Smithers' birthday had loomed closer, he had caught himself fantasizing that they would find themselves alone and kiss. _What then?_ The thought had plagued him. _Smithers may have his little puppy dog crush on me, but if I made a move on him – made it real – there is no chance he wants to pursue something real with me. I'm his boss, and though he may worship the ground I walk on, that doesn't mean he wants to hop into bed with me. Not that I want to –_ His eyes had snapped open. _I may – want him, that way._

"I do want him, that way." He remembered the way Smithers' hands had felt against his ribs. "But does he want me, really? What does he think he's doing with me? I tell him we're a happy couple and he... believes... me." Burns felt a twinge of guilt. "So this is what guilt feels like." He looked to the piano where Stephen Sondheim sat and pointed his video camera toward him. "Play it again."

 _When I wake, when I see you_

 _When I smell the coffee_

 _I crave your sycophantic smile_

 _When you bake, when you shampoo_

 _When you give me toffee_

 _You alight my atomic pile_

 _In all the years I've searched_

 _As I've grown senescent_

 _You're the one I always could count on_

 _With whom each summer I've gladly spent_

 _Adrift on an open sea_

 _I thought I needed no oar or sail_

 _On the Ferris Wheel you held me_

 _Kept me from being swept up in the gale_

 _When I demur, when I thunder_

 _When I yearn for something better than gold_

 _I reach for the one I adore_

 _When you concur, when you wonder_

 _When you need a hand to hold_

 _You can always reach for_

 _I will always be there for_

 _You_

Burns turned the camera toward himself. "I will, Waylon. That is one promise I won't break." He stopped the video camera from recording. "At least I'm giving you the birthday you deserve, albeit several months late."

* * *

Smithers lay in bed, scrolling through text messages between Burns and himself and taking breaks to cry whenever he read something especially callous. _I don't get it. He's treated me so tenderly like he loves me, but in the last few years he's treated me like dirt. Is this really all just an act? Why didn't he just dump me when I couldn't remember him anymore? Is he just feeling guilty because I almost died to save his life?_

Burns opened the door and entered his bedroom. "Guess what I found a videographic record of?" He held up his phone and walked up to him. "It's from your last birthday party."

"I wasn't expecting you for another hour."

"Yes, well, I really wanted to show this to you, so I came home early."

"Why don't you ever tell me you love me?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"In all these text messages going years back, you never wrote 'I love you' to me."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"And the only time you've told me you love me since the accident is after we made love last night."

Burns sat beside him on the bed. "I told you because I meant it. And I didn't want you to think I only fancy you for what you can do for me."

"Really? Because it seems like 'what I do for you' is all you care about me for."

"Pish posh!" Burns softened his eyes and laid his hand on Smithers' shoulder, rubbing gently. "If that were true, I would have dumped you by the side of the road like garbage the second I found out you were brain damaged and unable to work for me."

"I don't want to be a burden on you."

"Nonsense. Now, let's watch the video!" He placed his phone into Smithers' hands, then pressed the play button. Smithers watched as Sondheim played the piano and Burns sang the lyrics, while Burns anxiously watched Smithers for his reaction. Beads of sweat accumulated on Burns' forehead as he studied Smithers' features. _Why doesn't he look happier? If anything, he looks sadder._ Indeed, Smithers was holding back tears. _I spent all that money flying him out here and commissioning this song; he had better love it._ He looked into Smithers' eyes, seeing the tears hanging off the cusps of his eyelids. "What's wrong? I thought you would love this – I mean, you _did_ love this, the first time you heard it."

Smithers looked into Burns' eyes, his lips wobbling for a moment before he turned away, facing a pillow. "When did that performance take place?" he asked, the pillow slightly muffling his quavering voice.

"Your birthday, of course! What other day would it be?" Burns dabbed at the sweat on his brow.

"My birthday – really, Monty?"

"Yes, of course! I have a copy of the zoning permit for the cake in my pocket, in case you've forgotten when your birthday is."

"How can you lie so easily to me?"

"That's a fine thing to accuse me of, after I went through all the trouble of flying Stephen Sondheim out here on short notice, forging the zoning papers, hiring the Photoshop man –" Burns gulped.

"How could you?"

"I'm sorry, Waylon."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"So I let you believe some lies about the past being nicer than it was. It's hardly the first time I've lied to you about your past."

"Excuse me?"

"Believe me, the lies are much kinder to you than the truth. Well, except for the time I lied about your father's death, that was a mis-step, but the other times –"

"What other times? And why should I believe you, if this is apparently a regular thing for you, to lie to me?"

"I lied to you to spare you, because you shouldn't have to carry my burdens. You have enough as it is."

"Why are you even with me?"

Burns mumbled under his breath, "I ask myself the same question."

"Do you even love me? Or am I just your boy toy?"

"Don't be ridiculous; of course I love you."

"Then why did you treat me like dirt more often than not?"

"Because it was easier than accepting certain facts about myself."

"Like how we didn't dance in any Starlight Room at _Les Petits Champignons_? You stood me up for some chump change."

"We did dance that night."

"Don't bother denying, I've seen the texts."

"No. I meant at the hotel. We had a few, then danced in our room."

"So that's it? You're ashamed of me?"

"I wouldn't say I'm ashamed."

"You just don't want anyone else to know we're lovers."

"Yes, exactly."

"So is it because I'm a man, or is it because I'm from a lower class?"

"I assure you, it's equal measures of both."

"Well, maybe soon enough you won't have to worry about either."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I don't need to stand for this. There are plenty of men out there who would treat me with respect, who wouldn't feel like they have to keep me their dirty little secret."

"How dare you toy with me this way? First you sleep with me, make me feel alive again, then you start talking about leaving?"

"It's all about sex with you, isn't it?"

"Fiddle-faddle! You made me feel – you made me feel much more than a paroxysm of pleasure last night. You made me feel... loved. I've rarely felt that in my life. Don't tell me that was just a lie."

"Why not? It was all based on a lie."

Burns gasped, then looked down to his feet. "Yes, I suppose it was." He lifted himself off the bed, his arms wobbling with the effort, and caressed the back of Smithers' hand before turning for the door. "Regardless, I do love you, Waylon."

Smithers watched as he left the room. "God, I hope so."

Once in the hallway, Burns pulled out a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and dialed a number in his phone. "Hello, is this Dennis? ... This is Mr., ah, Bruns, and I'm inquiring about your social group. ... Oh, you're meeting tonight? When? ... Yes, I'll be there. ... I look forward to meeting you, too."

Burns drove to Dennis' house, leaving his limousine for a slice of suburbia, plastic pink flamingoes and garden gnomes dotting the front lawn. He rang the doorbell, an illuminated bit of plastic resembling the Duff blimp. "Hello?" said Dennis, a stocky man with gray hair and spectacles. "You must be the man who called earlier."

"Yes," said Burns, handing him his overcoat and walking inside. A group of men sat on a sectional couch, each with a glass of red wine or beer in his hand, chatting with each other. "Hello, gentlemen," he said, and they hushed and turned their heads.

"That's Mr. Burns," whispered one of the men to another.

Another man whispered, "What's he doing here?"

"Does Waylon know?" said another.

"Ahem," said Burns. "I hear this is a social group for, uh, men like us."

"Yes," said Dennis. "Yes, it is. Come, sit down," he said, showing him to a couch seat. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Some wine," he said, and as soon as he'd said it, Dennis had tilted a bottle over an empty wine glass and started pouring.

"Here you go," he said, handing it to Burns and sitting beside him. "So, do you know how you identify yet?"

"Pardon?"

"Are you gay, bi, queer, questioning...?"

"Well, I do have many questions."

"That's okay. Many of us came out late in life. George here came out last year."

"Came out... you mean to a debutante ball?" Burns furrowed his brow in confusion.

This earned a chuckle from the men in the group. "No, we mean he finally came out of the closet after all these years."

George said, "It wasn't easy back then with all the stigma."

"Well, no wonder you were stigmatized if you got lost in a closet!"

Dennis put his palm to his forehead and said, "Oh, my, you do have many questions. No, when we say 'come out of the closet,' we mean being open about our sexuality."

"Oh." He sipped his wine. "Yes, it's true, I fancy the gents as well as the ladies. So you all agree being open and honest is the best way to handle these affections?"

"Yes, but don't beat yourself up for taking a long time to come out."

"On the other hand, you don't want to wait too long, either. We only have so long to live."

"Do you have your eye on someone, Mr. Burns?"

Burns stared into his reflection in his wine, smiling as he thought of Smithers. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. We've been together for some time."

"But you're thinking about coming out now?"

"You mean coming out and penning a tell-all about my sexual exploits? I don't think so."

"You don't have to give any details. But don't you think it's hard on your significant other to keep quiet and pretend you're not in a relationship? And doesn't it take a toll on you? That's why you came here, right? To be able to talk without sweeping him under the rug?"

"It would be nice to abandon the pretense that my feelings for him are strictly platonic."

"People are a lot more accepting than they used to be."

"How would I go about this? Put up a neon sign and invite the prominent members of the community to my home for a reception and formal announcement?"

"You could. But coming out doesn't have to be a flashy event. It could be as simple as someone asking you if you're attached and you saying, 'Yes, I have a boyfriend.'"

"That simple, eh?" Burns set his glass of wine down on an end table. "Waylon seems to think so."

"You should listen to him. Once you're out, dating someone in the closet can be extraordinarily painful. Having to pretend you're 'just friends' with the love of your life is no way to live."

"Yes, I see that, now." He sipped his wine again. "I could 'come out' during the first intermission of _Tristan und Isolde_. Do you really think that will help?"

"No doubt about it."

"You see, after the car accident, he forgot so much of our past, and when I filled him in on the details, I may have invented some. I wanted to give him the memories he deserved, but all he sees in me is a liar, now."

"I'm sure he'll forgive you for telling a few white lies. But you'll have to be scrupulously honest with him from now on, or he's not going to be able to trust you, and a relationship can't work without trust."

"This situation calls for radical thinking just like that."

* * *

When Burns arrived home again, he swiftly made his way to the bedroom, where he found Smithers sleeping under the covers. He slipped underneath them and wrapped his arm around Smithers' waist, slid his hand under Smithers' shirt and tickled him just enough to get him to stir. "Waylon," he whispered into his ear, "I love you."

Half-asleep, he mumbled, "I love you, too."

As Smithers fell back asleep, Burns clutched him tighter. "God, I hope so."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Burns awoke minutes before his alarm was set to go off, his arm still draped over Smithers' torso. He looked over Smithers' shoulder and saw he was still deeply asleep. Caressing the back of his hand, he leaned over and kissed Smithers on his cheek, then rose from the bed and slipped on his slippers, then tied his robe at the waist. As he approached the door, he turned to look back at Smithers for a moment, a smile creeping up on his face for just a second before his jaw relaxed into a neutral frown.

He left his room for his study, where he lit the fireplace before walking to his tall red desk chair, where he sat and propped his elbows against the desktop, holding his head in his palms. His head slowly slid downward, his palms sliding up his forehead to the top of his head as he sank his face against the wooden surface. Smithers' voice echoed in his head.

" _Do you even love me? Or am I just your boy toy?"_

" _Then why did you treat me like dirt so often?"_

" _I don't need you. I'll find a man who treats me with the respect I deserve."_

 _How could I have made such a mess of things? So I lied about his birthday. Is that really such a big deal? I only wanted to see him smile. Is that a crime?_ Nevertheless, he felt another pang of guilt. _I wanted to be there for your birthday, I swear. I didn't know how to handle... I knew if I had gone there, and we'd started drinking champagne and exchanging gifts, I would have kissed you, and every time I envisioned myself kissing you, I saw a look of horror and disgust on your face. I was sure you would have taken such an advance from your superior as an act of vulturine lewdness. I could tolerate seeing that look on a stranger I fancied, but not on you._

 _But I can't tell you any of that. I've already told you we were in a committed relationship by that time._

Burns dipped his quill pen into a well of ink. "Dear Waylon," he said as he wrote on a scroll of parchment. "No..." he said, mumbling to himself. "Something's still not right." He crossed out the salutation and tried a few variations, then sighed in frustration. "If only I were better at this, or this were a matter I could let my lawyers handle. But this is too personal and too important to let them get their greasy fingers on it." He continued until he had a rough draft, then copied it neatly over onto another piece of parchment. He rolled up the finished letter, then applied his official wax seal and brought it back to his bedroom, where Smithers still was sleeping. On the pillow of his side of the bed, he laid the letter as gently as if it were made of glass, then quietly left the room to get ready for work.

* * *

Smithers opened his eyes, a ray of sunshine shining in them from the window on his right. He took his glasses from the nightstand and put them on, then turned to face the other side of the bed. _Monty must have left for work already._ He checked the time, seeing it was 9:41 a.m. _Yes, he's at work._ Eyes properly focused, he now saw the scroll on Burns' pillow. His stomach sank. _It's a Dear John letter, isn't it? He's finally gathered enough courage to break up with me, but not enough to tell me to my face._ He shed some tears, slowly but steadily. _I guess it's for the best, though, instead of him forcing himself to pretend he loves me._

He stared up at the canopy. _I really thought he wanted me. I tried to be sexy. I tried to be a good partner. I don't know what went wrong. All I can guess is that my looks faded and he got bored with me. He didn't seem bored two nights ago when we made love, but he was so reluctant. He's probably been seeing someone on the side since the accident. And he's only been acting so loving to soften the blow of the inevitable break-up. It's all so obvious. How could I have been such a fool?_

 _What am I doing, torturing myself like this? I need to take a deep breath, read what he has to say, and then deal with it. It has to be better than trying to deal with every possible scenario at once._

He held the scroll in his hand, staring at the red waxen seal bearing the initials C.M.B. Wincing, he broke the seal and hesitatingly unfurled the parchment in his hands, then dared to open his eyes again and begin to read it.

 _Dearest Waylon,_

 _For the first time in my life, I feel the weight of a guilty conscience. I never meant to hurt you. You are the one person in my life worthy of being spared my wrath. On the occasion of your last birthday, I was caught in a crisis and struggling to accept my feelings for you, and I didn't want to ruin your birthday by unloading my self-pity onto you. I did go to your place the next day and spent the day with you._

 _I love you, Waylon. I love you beyond what I thought love could be. That's the reason I was so desperate to hide the truth and avoid hurting you. You don't deserve this pain, and it's eating me up inside that I've hurt you despite my best efforts to spare you that pain. Alas, I'm not nearly as good at sparing others pain as I am at inflicting it._

 _Please accept my heartfelt condolences. I have let the fear of judgment stand in the way of treating you as you deserve. I intend to show you tonight how I consider you my equal. Without you, I would be poorer many millions and surely behind bars. You are not a mere toy or servant to me. You are my love and my life._

 _I was planning to wait until we saw the opera next week, but I have decided to come clean tonight. There's a meeting of an exclusive club tonight, and I want you there at my side. Wear the suit I left sitting on your wheelchair and the Cartier cufflinks I left on the nightstand, and a lapel pin of your choosing. I will pick you up at 5:30 tonight._

 _Call me once you've read this. I will walk out of a meeting to speak with you, if necessary._

 _Sincerely, Monty._

Smithers read it over time and time again, especially the second and third paragraphs. He shut his eyes and held the parchment against his chest, a single tear sliding down each cheek. He reached for the back of his wheelchair, turning it so he could see the suit draped over the armrests. It was a beautiful cashmere three-piece suit in forest green, a royal purple pocket square folded and partly protruding from one of two Besom pockets in the front. He held it in his hands, feeling the silk magenta lining and finessing the gold buttons, each of which had his initials WS in diamonds. He turned his attention to the nightstand when a glint of light reflecting against gold caught his eye. He picked up one of them, inspecting it close. It had the Cartier logo in gold over an emerald set in gold. He set the cufflink down and picked up his phone.

"Waylon!" said Burns with a gasp of relief. "So, I – I take it you read my letter?"

"Yes, Monty, I did."

"And you..." He couldn't gather the courage to finish his sentence and gulped instead. "You won't... leave... me, will you?"

Smithers took a few seconds before responding, Burns holding his breath as he awaited a response. "Well, Monty..." Smithers inhaled sharply as he fended off more tears. "I don't know. How can I trust you again? Everything I thought I knew about us is a lie."

Burns gasped for breath. "No, no, no, Waylon, not everything. Everything that matters is still true. There is no one I'd rather spend time with, no one I'd rather hold close to me, no one who is worth a damn to me but you."

"Then why are you only treating me nicely now, when I've lost my memories?"

"Because I've made many mistakes where you are concerned, and your memory loss presented me the opportunity to start anew, as if I'd never made those mistakes, and I could finally give you the memories you deserve."

"So you thought starting us out on a lie was better than those mistakes?"

"Yes."

"Those must have been some mistakes."

"Yes. They were."

"I have to admit, I thought you were going to break up with me."

"You did?"

"Yeah. I thought your letter was going to say you'd found someone else and were going to leave me."

"Poppycock. What gave you that idiotic idea?"

"You didn't want to make love to me, and you weren't very nice until the accident. I thought you were only keeping me around because you felt sorry for me, or in my debt."

"Absurd. It's true that almost losing you rattled me and made me reconsider my priorities, but had I wanted rid of you, I'd have kicked you to the curb the day you went into the ER and let your mother take charge of your rehabilitation."

"So where were you last night?"

"I met up with some men."

"You what?"

"Oh, good heavens, it was nothing like that! It's a social group for men like us. I had some cheap wine, made conversation, then left."

"Oh. The way you said it, I was picturing a gang bang in a park or a dark alley."

"They helped me see that you were right about coming up."

"You mean, coming out?"

"Yes, yes. I've decided to be upfront about our relationship."

"You are?"

"Yes, and that means you can, as well." Burns put his feet up on his desk as he leaned back. "I haven't enjoyed hiding our relationship, either. The reason I lied about the past was because I didn't want you to have to shoulder the burdens of my internal struggles, but when we dined at The Gilded Truffle, I saw that making you hide was exactly that. Besides, it seems half of Springfield has caught on by now, and I'd rather get ahead of the rumor mill."

"That does mean a lot to me."

"Excellent! Have you had a chance to try on your suit?"

"No, I just looked at it."

"You should try it on to ensure it's still a good fit. You've gained some weight since your last birthday."

"I've lost some since you pointed it out."

"I want to see you try it on. Let's switch to a video call!"

"Okay." Smithers pressed a button on his phone, and Burns pressed another button to accept the change to a video call. He turned the speaker setting on and propped his phone against his pillow. "I'm going to try it on, now." He took off his pajamas and put on a white button-up shirt, then pulled his legs through the pants. As he stood, buttoning his pants, he smiled and said, "It fits. Maybe a little more snugly than before, but it's comfortable." He sat back down and put on the waistcoat and jacket. "This is a really fine suit. How long have I had it?"

"It arrived a few weeks ago, so this is your first time wearing it."

"Wait. I think I'm remembering something. We were together, and I was getting measured. You took me to get this suit tailored, didn't you?"

"Well, actually, the day after your birthday, I took you to get fitted for a bespoke suit. That suit you're wearing was my real birthday gift for you."

Smithers' jaw dropped down as he admired his suit, touching the sleeve, the buttons of the vest, the peaks of his lapel. "You mean you gave me this suit for my birthday?"

"I know, I should have given you something you could have opened up and enjoyed then, but I'd seen you looking wistfully at my Armani catalogue, and I thought you'd like to have a really nice suit you could wear when the occasion doesn't call for a tuxedo."

"You mean this beautiful suit was my birthday gift? And you still felt like you had to lie about giving me an over-the-top cake and personal performance by Stephen Sondheim?"

"I knew you would like it, but it's not nearly what you deserved. I should have thrown you a big party at my mansion."

"Monty, I love this suit. It's incredible. Are these buttons real gold?"

"Of course."

"And these are real diamonds spelling my initials."

"Yes."

"The cufflinks are exquisite, too. How much did all this cost?"

"Ten or twenty grand. Who remembers? It pales in comparison to how much I spent trying to fake your birthday party."

Smithers gasped. "I'm wearing over ten thousand dollars?"

"And you look stunning in it." Burns' eyes widened. "I almost forgot! I got you a silver money clip. It's on the desk."

Smithers stood and slowly, haltingly walked a few steps to the desk, taking a seat in the green padded chair and then scanning the desktop until he saw it. The money clip was a textured silver, with "W.J.S." in gold at the center. Taking the clip into his hand, Smithers braced himself against the back of the chair and stood up, then walked back to his bed.

"Excellent. You're getting better at walking."

"That's about all I can do right now."

"Still, it's good to see you up on your feet after months of seeing you lying in a hospital bed."

"It's good to be able to get up, even if it's just for a minute," he said, smiling. "You said I should wear a lapel pin, too, but I don't know where those are."

"There's a box in the closet of the first room you stayed in. My goons retrieved it from your apartment."

"I think I'll take the chair to get that." He moved himself into his wheelchair, then grabbed his phone and talked as he pushed himself along. "So, what's this important meeting that I'm getting dressed to the nines for?"

"It's only a meeting with some wealthy associates."

"Do I know any of them?"

"Yes, you know most of them."

"Do I get along with them?"

"We've had our quibbles and bitter rivalries with some of them, but they're important social connections, so we wait until the ride home to gossip about them."

"Oh, I see. Do we have any real friends there?"

"Oh, of course, why, there's –" Burns bit his lower lip, trying to think of someone he could plausibly call his friend. "There's..." He sighed. "Waylon, I must confess. I don't have any real friends. You're the only person I genuinely like. You have real friends, but they aren't among the wealthy elite."

"Why don't we invite some of my friends over sometime? I'm sure they'll like you."

"I don't know..."

"I think you'll like them, too. Come on, it'll be fun to host a party again, the two of us."

"We have thrown some spectacular soirées."

Smithers opened the closet door and soon found a cherry wood box. Putting it in front of his phone camera, Smithers said, "Is this it?"

"Yes, that's the one." Smithers opened the box, revealing about a dozen lapel pins. One featured Smilin' Joe Fission, while another was the logo for Burns Worldwide. He had a couple of the atomic symbol, one of a music note, a rainbow flag, an American flag, a U.S. Navy logo, and one with the Stonecutters symbol. One of his atomic symbol pins was painted enamel that looked newer, while the other was made of silver with a bit of tarnish revealing its age, the words "Atomic Energy Commission – United States of America" surrounding it. As Smithers picked it up to examine it closer, Burns said, "That was your father's." Burns sighed. "He got it during the war. He always wore it to formal occasions, so proud of using his love of science to serve his country. When we got this plant up and running, he was so proud of it, I didn't think he could be more proud of anything else, until you came along. Once you were born, he was more proud of the bubbles you blew from your own saliva than of his once precious reactor standing as the vanguard of the atomic age."

"I wish I could have known him."

"I know. I miss him, too. It soothes me to remember that his sacrifice is the only reason I ever got the chance to know you."

"I'm glad I got the chance to know you, too – both times."

"Why don't we go out to lunch today? Say, noonish?"

"It's a date."

"Where would you like to lunch?"

"What about Luigi's? I keep seeing their ads on TV, and the food looks good."

"Luigi's? Are you... sure?"

"Is it... a serious decision?"

"No, I mean, since that's where we, and then you, and – you almost, you could've – and it's – I don't think it's a good – I mean, you're certain to have some problems coping."

"Okay, Monty. We don't have to go to Luigi's."

"Whatever suits you."

Burns arrived at his doorstep shortly after noon, Smithers answering the door in his usual suit. Looking Burns up from toe to top, he said, "You never told me where you're taking me."

Burns stepped inside, then closed the door behind him. "Right here, if I get my way."

"Huh? You're ordering in?"

Burns sighed, exasperated. "Let's see, how can I make this crystal clear to you...?" He climbed onto Smithers' lap, loosened Smithers' bow tie, and began vigorously kissing along his neck while his hands found their way underneath Smithers' shirt. Smithers brought his lips to Burns' neck and held him close with his right arm as he steered his chair toward the hallway with his left arm, falteringly as Burns' attention distracted him.

"Mmm... you've made yourself _very_ clear," said Smithers, pausing to bring his hand under Burns' shirt to the small of his back, pulling him closer. Burns slipped a hand under Smithers' trousers as he dragged his lips down to Smithers' collarbone. "Monty, we're... we won't make it to our room if you keep... Mmm..."

Burns lifted his lips long enough to point to an adjacent room with his head and say, "We'll use the fainting couch in here," before going back to unbuttoning Smithers' shirt and kissing along his chest.

Smithers rolled inside the room and up beside a burgundy Victorian fainting couch, and Burns stood, pulling Smithers with him. They tumbled onto the velvet upholstery, Burns making quick work of Smithers' pants while Smithers fumbled with Burns'. Burns helped him undo his pants, then pulled Smithers' pants down to his ankles. "I guess you weren't hungry."

"Oh, no, Waylon. I _am_ hungry." He tugged on Smithers' boxers. "I'm positively _ravenous_." He pulled Smithers' boxers off, then dove for him.

"M...Monty..." He gripped Burns' shoulder with his left hand, gently guiding him closer.

 _It's been so long since I've done this. I hope he's enjoying this as much as I am._ Smithers curled his fingers up in Burns' hair and moaned. _I take that as a 'yes.'_ Out of the corner of his eye, Burns saw Nurse Jason walking down the hall and glimpse them, so Burns motioned insistently for him to mind his own business, and he scurried off.

* * *

They lay beside each other on the fainting couch, Burns nestling his head against the crook of Smithers' neck. Smithers kissed his cheek. "Great idea, honey. This was a lot more fun than getting a pizza."

Burns chuckled, stroking Smithers' chest with his fingers. "I'll say." He kissed Smithers on the lips. "I apologize for being... less than forthright with you. I'm glad you enjoyed your birthday present, anyway."

"That's not what's been bothering me the most."

"What, then?"

"I've been reading texts you've sent me over years. Some of them are really cruel." Smithers sniffled as he recalled some of the hurtful texts.

"I only said such things because I still..." He brought the palm of his hand to the back of Smithers' head. "Because I still couldn't accept myself. You didn't deserve for me to take it out on you, but I did. And I'm sorry." He rubbed his nose against Smithers' cheek. "Please, forgive me, Waylon. I know I don't deserve it, but... I don't know what I would do without you. And I do accept my nature, now."

"I understand. It wasn't easy for me, either. I even married a woman before I was able to accept myself."

"So you forgive me?"

"Yes, Monty. I forgive you. But it still hurts."

"I promise, from now on, I'll give you nothing less than the respect you deserve."


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Five o'clock rolled around, and Burns pulled up the driveway in his limousine. By the time he'd finished walking up the ramp, Smithers opened the door, dressed in his green bespoke suit. Burns looked him up and down. "Very sharp," he said approvingly. "I almost forgot. I got you something," he said, walking back to the limousine. When he came back, he was pushing a new wheelchair in front of him. "It's made of some kind of space age polymer that makes it ultralight. I can stow it in the back of our limousine, so we don't have to be embarrassed being seen driving that Low-Class-tro-wagon to the valet."

"Oh. That makes sense."

"Try it out."

Smithers stood up from his usual wheelchair and lowered himself into the new one. "It's not bad. It isn't as comfortable as my other one, though."

"Well, you won't have to spend much time in this. Only when we travel in the limousine." He closed the door and got behind Smithers, setting his hands on the back of the chair, by Smithers' shoulders. "Shall we?" Smithers nodded, and Burns pushed him down the ramp to the passenger seat of his limousine, then helped him inside and folded up the wheelchair, pushing it into the back seat.

When Burns opened the driver side door and settled in behind the wheel, Smithers reached into his pocket and pulled out a rainbow lapel pin. "In honor of your commitment to be open about us, I'd like to give this to you to wear." He dropped the pin into Burns' hand. "The first time I wore it in public, I was nervous, but it helped me become so much more comfortable being who I am."

"Why should you be nervous wearing it? It looks fine."

"It wasn't the pin that made me nervous. It's what it represents."

"What, that claptrap about the covenant? I've never known you to be a religious man." 

"No, no, no, Monty, the rainbow flag represents pride." Seeing Burns wasn't getting it, he added, "In one's sexuality..."

Burns' eyes widened in an epiphany. "Oh." He smiled nervously. "Oh, yes, nothing to be ashamed of, there."

"So you'll wear it?"

"Why, of course, it's not as if that's something I'd rather hide, not at all." He dabbed at his forehead when Smithers looked down, digging into a pocket.

"Great!" Smithers unfurled his hand, revealing his father's atomic lapel pin. "Then I'll wear this one." As he affixed the pin to his lapel, Burns stared at the rainbow flag pin in his hand, his brows angled to betray a sad anxiety. Finished with his pin, Smithers looked at Burns with concern. "What's wrong? Are you having second thoughts?"

"Ah, no, of course not! I just..." He looked up to the corner of his eye, searching. "I just..." Smithers looked attentively into his eyes. "I just was thinking... about how much I care for you." Smithers smiled, and Burns pinned the rainbow flag to his lapel with a hesitating hand.

"Aw." He kissed Burns' lips. "I know you're nervous. Trust me, it gets easier. Just remember that I have a hand for you to hold anytime you think you might need it."

"Now would be a good time." Smithers extended his hand, and Burns took it, squeezing firmly for a full minute. "Let's go." Hands on the wheel, Burns located the velocitator and they set off. "You probably won't like the people there very much. I don't care for most of them myself."

"Why are we going, then?"

"Because I need to show them you aren't some low-class troglodyte. You're a classy, successful man, and it's time they started seeing you as such. And, you never know what kind of blackmail-worthy information a rival might divulge once he's had too much to drink."

"That makes sense." They drove though town, driving until they pulled into the old Stonecutters Lodge building. Burns retrieved the wheelchair from the back seat and unfolded it, then helped Smithers into it before handing his key to the valet. "This place looks familiar," said Smithers as Burns guided him along the concrete path toward the front door, which still bore the Stonecutters logo.

"It should look familiar," said Burns. "We reveled here many a night while this was still the Stonecutter Lodge."

"Stonecutters. You mentioned that before. It all seems so familiar, but I can't remember. What happened to it?"

"Well, when the Chosen One was found and put in charge, he cancelled our beer bashes and made us do," Burns shuddered, "community service."

"Oh. That doesn't sound... _so_ bad."

"With _children_."

"I see."

Standing in front of the door, Burns elaborated, "Most of the membership quit and formed a new organization, the No Homers Society, but it was never the same," said Burns, his eyes down as he slowly shook his head. "Such a pity. You know, your father is the one who had me inducted into the Stonecutters after I saved his life. He always said he owed me a big one and joked that he should work for me for free to repay his debt to me." Burns grew sullen. _You've repaid it and then some, old friend._

"So if the Stonecutters are defunct, what secret society are we going to tonight?"

Burns smiled, both in anticipation of their evening and out of delight that Smithers had come up with the word 'defunct' on his own. "We used to be called the Excluders Club, but now it's been rebranded as the MONEY organization, MONEY being an acronym for Millionaires Only, No Everyman or Yes-man."

"But I'm not a millionaire like you."

"Yes, you are. I transferred two million dollars into your account yesterday."

"You're kidding."

Burns put his hands on Smithers' shoulders and bent down enough to look him in the eyes. "This isn't some handout; I don't give more in charity than I need to for tax purposes. You're directly responsible for a hundred times that in profits. I'm simply giving you what you're worth." He stood up straight, withdrawing his arms, then pulled the door open and walked in, Smithers wheeling himself behind him.

A man in a black suit handed them each a glass of red wine. As they went past the foyer, Burns pushing Smithers' chair to guide him, they passed some leather easy chairs, waiters carrying hors d'oeuvres, and a full bar set up between wall pillars. They approached a circle of men around a comparatively small, round poker table in the middle of the Great Hall. Among them were the Rich Texan, Krusty the Clown, Rainier Wolfcastle, Kent Brockman, Artie Ziff, and Joe Quimby. Burns stopped to wipe off a smudge of dip off the corner of Smithers' lip with his own pocket square.

Seeing that Burns was attending to Smithers, Krusty said with a chuckle, "What happened, Burnsie? Did you lose your fortune again and now you're Smithers' lackey?"

Burns backed a few steps away from Smithers and held his glass of wine to his left breast, obscuring his rainbow pin. "No, not at all. I'm simply helping my companion when he is in need. Is that really so strange?"

"For you?" said Krusty. "Yes!"

Scrutinizing Smithers, Brockman said, "Mr. Burns, you know the _help_ aren't allowed past the foyer."

"He isn't 'the help,'" said Burns. "He's a millionaire in his own right."

"Nice try," said Wolfcastle. "You know the rules: no lackeys allowed."

The Rich Texan said, "Are you trying to pull a fast one on us? You can't just pay him the money he needs for admission. It's against our bylaws."

"I concur," said Quimby. "Even if you inflate his bank account, a lackey is still a lackey."

"Is that what you think?" said Burns. "That I paid him off as if he were a harlot?" The others nodded. "Nothing could be further from the truth," he said as earnestly as he could. "Waylon has carefully managed and invested the money he's earned and made millions in the stock market. In the last few months, I've chosen my stocks according to his picks, and I've made millions more. Why, I'm no more responsible for him being a millionaire than he is for me being one."

"He _is_ wearing a stylish suit," said Quimby.

"It cost him 23,974 dollars and 29 cents, including the Cartier cufflinks he's wearing." The others whistled and looked closer as Smithers extended his arm to show off one of his cufflinks. It was more expensive than any of their outfits. "My suit didn't cost me half that," Burns added. As it dawned on Smithers that he was the most swankily dressed of the lot, he grinned, starting to feel as though he fit in with this crowd.

Brockman said, "So, Smithers, tell us about your stock portfolio."

Burns said sharply, "That's _Mr._ Smithers to you." Seeing Smithers sweat and grope for words, he added, "As if Waylon would share his secrets with the likes of you."

Artie Ziff pulled some papers out from his jacket and said, "Well, if you're going to be a member, here is your membership packet." Smithers took them into his hand and thumbed through them. "Congratulations, welcome to the club, yada yada yada." Burns took an empty seat, still holding his wine glass up in front of his left breast, and Smithers parked himself beside him.

Brockman said, "So, _Mr._ Smithers, does this mean you quit working for Mr. Burns?"

"Not exactly," said Smithers. "I'm not working right now because I'm still recovering from the accident, but I plan to go back to work at the plant when I'm ready."

Krusty said, "So, are you going to be able to walk again, or are you crippled for life?"

"He's been making excellent progress," said Burns. "He can walk for short distances."

"I still have constant tingling in my legs and sometimes a burning nerve pain."

"If you ever need anything stronger," said Krusty, sliding a business card across the table to Smithers, "this doctor will hook you up with the really good stuff."

"Uh, thanks," he said, putting the card in his jacket pocket.

Wolfcastle said, "Please, help yourselves to some hors d'oeuvres."

Waiters encircled them, each offering a platter of one of the hors d'oeuvres – pâté and crackers, skewered abalone, prosciutto, and ramekins of cherry fool. Smithers put some prosciutto on a small silver plate, while Burns awkwardly spread pâté on his crackers with his right hand only. Confused, Smithers said, "Wouldn't it be easier if you used your left hand, Monty? You are left-handed, right?"

"Yes, well..." He paused, beads of sweat forming at his brow. "I thought I'd learn to be ambidextrous. Yes, that's it."

"At 104 years old?"

"Yes."

"Okay, but why don't you enjoy the food now and practice later?"

"I suppose you're right." He brought his right hand to the stem of his wine glass and steadied it there before reaching his left hand for the pâté. Smithers raised an eyebrow.

"So, gentlemen," said the Rich Texan, "Are we going to play cards or what?" They all nodded and began chatting as he dealt some cards. "The game is Texas Hold 'Em."

Brockman said sarcastically under his breath, "Aren't we surprised?"

Ziff said, "Everyone, get out your money to exchange for chips."

Smithers looked uneasily at Burns and whispered, "I didn't bring any cash."

Burns whispered back at him, "Don't worry, I have you covered," and withdrew two stacks of bills.

Smithers furrowed his brow. "Um, Monty, some of these are $5,000 gold certificates from 1870."

"And?"

"I think they might be worth more than their face value."

"I see. We'll just keep those in our pockets then, shall we?"

They each were dealt their hole cards, then placed their bets. After the first round, which Ziff won, Smithers noticed that Burns still was holding his wine glass up and had left it untouched. Leaning over to whisper in his ear, Smithers said, "Monty, you haven't had a sip of your wine. Is something wrong with it?"

"No," he said, his eyes drifting to the table and settling on his plate of pâté and crackers. "I just... needed to eat something first. Can't let the wine get to my head, you know." He lifted a cracker to his mouth and slid it in, chewing methodically. Smithers relaxed, satisfied with his answer, and shifted his attention to his cards, planning his bet for the next round. The moment his eyes were averted, Burns brought another cracker to his face, smeared some pâté on his finger, then surreptitiously smeared it onto his rainbow pin. He then brought his wine glass to his lips and took a long sip before setting the glass down on the table.

Brockman won the next round, and the Rich Texan the next. In the middle of the next round, The Rich Texan said, "What's the matter, Burns? Is losing your money to me giving you a stroke and throwing off your coordination?"

"What in the devil do you mean?" he said, scrutinizing the flop in the middle.

"I mean you've got liver on your lapel."

Feigning surprise, he looked down and said, "Oh, yes, I suppose I do. How could I be so clumsy?" He pulled out a red pocket square and wiped while his other hand reached beneath his suit jacket and undid the pin clasp, then grabbed the pin inside the pocket square and dropped both pieces into his front jacket pocket. Smithers noticed the maneuver and couldn't hide the look of hurt on his face, but it escaped Burns' notice.

The Rich Texan won again, and Smithers brought a hand to Burns' elbow and leaned close to his ear, whispering, "We need to talk."

Seeing the serious expression on Smithers' face, Burns simply nodded and stood from his chair. "If you'll excuse us," then left for the men's room. Once inside and seeing they were alone, Burns stroked Smithers' shoulder, then said, "If it's a quickie you want, forget it. You'll have to wait until we get home."

"No, Monty, I'm not looking for a quickie," he said, tongue sharp as a razor. He looked directly at Burns' lapel and said in a low, steady voice, "Where is the pin I gave you?"

"Pin?"

"The rainbow pin."

"Oh, yes! I put it on my lapel, see –" Burns opened his eyes wide. "Why, it's not there anymore. It must have fallen off during our last spirited round. We'll search for it before we leave and buy a new one should it not –" Smithers shoved his hand inside Burns' pocket and pulled out the rainbow pin in two pieces, some pâté still smeared along the edge. "– turn up."

Holding it in his palm right under Burns' nose and scowling, he said, "I may have suffered brain damage, but I'm not an idiot."

Burns looked from the pin to Smithers' face. "I changed my mind. I'm not telling them tonight. Is that so bad?"

"No, Monty, but lying _is_."

"You didn't mind me lying when I was telling them you're a self-made millionaire. I could go back and show them the deposit slip and have your membership nullified, if you think the truth is so sacred."

"That's lying to them. It's different when you lie to me."

"You're not the one who's facing telling a table of some of the richest, most powerful men in town that you've been shacking up with your lackey."

"No, I'm just the lackey you've stooped to shacking up with. That's much more dignified."

"It doesn't matter; they already know about you. Everyone knows about you."

"Besides, what do you care? You don't even like them, and you're ten times more rich and powerful than most of those guys."

"I don't know. I shouldn't, but I do. I want them to like me."

"But _I do_ like you. I love you," he said, taking Burns' hand into his. "So why are you hurting the one person who truly cares about you, to – to please some jackasses? Not even to please them, just to make them more comfortable. Will you tell me that, Monty? Why?"

Burns looked into his eyes, his own eyes watering as his lip trembled. "I'm sorry, Waylon. I can't tell them about us. If I could, I would, but I cannot."

"I understand. I'm disappointed, but I understand." He kissed the back of Burns' hand. "Maybe we'll be able to be open about our love by my next birthday." Smithers turned toward the men's room door.

"Oh, no, no, no..." Burns placed his hands on Smithers' shoulders from behind. "It won't take me that long. I promise you."

"I'll believe it when I see it." Smithers went to the sink and washed the remaining pâté off his pin.

"What are you doing?" asked Burns.

"I'm cleaning this pin, and then I'm going to wear it." He dried it with his purple pocket square, then replaced his father's atomic pin with it, placing the atomic pin inside his pocket. "Maybe you aren't ready to be out, but I am."

"I see."

"Do you have a problem with me wearing it?"

"Well..."

"Don't worry. I won't say a thing about you."

"Yes, but..."

"But what? You already said they all know I'm gay."

"You're usually more low-key – I've never seen you mention it in these circles. These people might not appreciate you flaunting it in their faces."

"Flaunting it? You think wearing this pin is flaunting it?"

"Isn't that the point?"

"No, Monty. The point is that I'm not ashamed if people happen to know I love you. That's hardly flaunting anything. Now, if I grabbed your ass in front of everyone, that would be flaunting it. If I started talking out of nowhere about how much I love your cock, that would be flaunting it. If I –"

"I get the picture."

"I'm going out there, and I won't deny who I am."

"I admire you. You're a stronger man than I."

"I know it's scary to take the plunge, but my God, Monty, anything is better than this hell you're putting yourself through." He opened the door, and Burns walked up to hold it open for him. "Please, think about it. You'll feel much better."

"I'm sorry," he said, closing the door behind them. "I'm truly sorry, Waylon."

Back at the table, the game resumed, and Smithers won the round. The Rich Texan noticed his rainbow flag pin and said, "Smithers, what's your idea behind wearing that rainbow flag? You want to turn this club into the Democratic National Convention?" he said with a chuckle.

"No. I'm just not afraid of people finding out who I love."

"Well, everyone here already knew you're queer as a three-dollar bill. Except maybe Burns there."

Burns' shoulders bobbed as he chuckled nervously. "Oh, I knew." His cheeks flushed. _That sounded suggestive. As if I'm implying we had sex. We_ have _had sex, but I didn't mean to imply it. They're looking at me._ "Of course, I only knew because he made sure I knew."

"I'm sure he did," said the Rich Texan with a wink.

 _Oh, no. He knows. Could they have overheard us in the bathroom? No, it's too –_

"Fruits always gotta make sure you know, mincing about and lisping and whatnot."

Smithers cocked an eyebrow. "When have I ever acted like that?"

Burns chimed in, "He does sleep in a hot pink robe."

Intrigued, Brockman said, teasing, "Oh, and how would you know that?"

Burns' face fell. _This is a disaster! I might be forced into coming out now. Drat! I wanted to do this on my own terms, not have it forced out of me like a confession from a common criminal!_ "Because I – Because I am –"

"My caretaker," said Smithers. "I've been living with him since the accident, and he's been taking care of me. That's all."

Krusty said, "I'm surprised you can sleep at night with him living with you."

"There are dozens of rooms at the manor," said Burns. "It's not as though we share a bed." He laughed nervously and sipped his wine. "That would be ludicrous."

Wolfcastle said, "I have been hit on by the homosexuals before. I stopped them by hitting on them – with my fist."

Smithers' eyes widened, and he gulped, unnerved for a moment before collecting himself. "Well, you have nothing to worry about from me. You're not my type at all."

Wolfcastle turned to Quimby and asked, "Did he just insult me?"

Quimby said, "You, ah, better be careful, Mr. Burns, not to drop your, er, towel when leaving the bathroom."

"Yes, that's why I've cinched my robe tight since he's been staying with me. I call it the Smithers knot – as in, Smithers, not on your life." The other men laughed.

Smithers cut through their laughter, saying, "Quimby, just because you're a pervert who'd take advantage of someone's hospitality doesn't mean I am."

"Whoa, easy there, tiger," said Quimby. "I er, wouldn't want to start a catfight." More snickering ensued.

"I get it, it's funny because being gay makes me like a woman, ha ha. Now let's shut up and play cards." They examined their cards and took initial bets. Burns won that one. The next round, they took their bets and watched as the community cards were displayed in stages. When the last bets were being taken, everyone but Burns and Smithers folded.

Burns stared into Smithers' eyes. "I raise you two thousand," he said, putting out two red poker chips.

"I see it and raise you three thousand."

"You're bluffing."

"No, Monty. _You're_ bluffing."

"We'll see about that. I raise you two thousand."

"I see it and I raise you _five_ thousand."

"I call."

Smithers laid out his cards, two aces. "That's full house, aces full of queens."

"Two pairs, queens and deuces," said Burns, tossing down his two of hearts and two of clubs.

The Rich Texan said to Smithers, "We know you're one of the queens, but whose aces are we talking about?" The other men burst into laughter, including Burns.

Burns said, "As long as it isn't mine, I don't give a fig."

Smithers frowned at Burns as he took in the pot and they started the next round. "If I were you, Monty, I'd fold right now. You've already proven how awful you are at bluffing."

"Of course you'd know a thing or two about folding," he said, whispering. "You've folded at every demand I ever made of you."

"Don't expect me to fold now."

Burns said, "Smithers does have a point. That joke is inappropriate." Smithers smiled. "After all," continued Burns, "if anything, he'd want _his_ ace full of me."

Smithers stood up, rattling the poker chips and snack plates. "That's enough. I never wanted to be in this crappy club in the first place." He tore up the papers laying out his membership benefits and showered the scraps of paper over the poker table like angry confetti. "I only joined because Monty said he wanted me to be respected in your eyes." His throat tightened as his eyes welled with tears. "I see now how fucking foolish I was to believe that."

"Waylon –"

"I don't want to hear it." He turned to Wolfcastle. "So you like to punch out guys who are into you? That's some mighty big talk coming from you. I saw you in Midnight Cumboy and Sperms of Endearment." Wolfcastle looked sheepish while the Rich Texan laughed. Smithers pointed at him next. "And you – the last time I heard, your grandson is gay. Do you really want people to talk about him like that?" He turned to Burns. "When you love someone, you don't talk about them like that. Even if you're a coward." He walked away as briskly as he could manage, not stopping or looking back.

Burns stood and pursued him, pushing Smithers' wheelchair with him and catching up by the time Smithers had gotten fifteen feet away from the table. "Waylon, I never meant –"

"– A goddamn nice thing you've said to me? Yeah, I figured that out already."

"No. I meant –" Seeing Smithers was still walking away from him, he advanced a few steps with the chair and said, "For heaven's sake, Waylon, sit down!"

Smithers turned back to face him, still standing. "No. I'm not some subordinate you can pacify." He kept walking toward the door, Burns matching him at a leisurely pace.

"Waylon, this is ridiculous. You don't have to speak to me, but at least take a seat."

"No!" His legs collapsed from under him and he fell to the ground. Burns tried to help him up into the chair, but Smithers resisted, prying Burns' arms off of him. As soon as he got Burns to step aside, he pulled himself up into his chair with his arms. He spun his wheels as fast as he could to get outside, Burns running alongside him. Once outside, Smithers kept going, maneuvering around the corner of the building to get to the parking lot, ignoring the valet out front.

"Waylon, please!" Burns ran after him, finally cornering him by a vent. "I was simply making conversation." The echo of his words was audible to the men at the poker table inside, and they quieted to listen.

"Yeah, great conversation, treating me as a one-note joke."

"I thought you wanted your sexuality to be front and center. Why else would you want to advertise it?"

"Because unlike you, I'm through being ashamed of myself. I'm done hiding!"

"How did I disparage you?"

"You made it sound like you expect me to take advantage of you at any moment, like I'm some horny animal who can't control himself."

"What did you expect, for me to tell them all about my sexual desire for you? I already made it clear to you I would do no such thing."

"You could've at least defended me as your closest friend, but you didn't even do that!"

"You're making a big deal out of nothing."

"You told me you were going to treat me with the respect I deserve. I deserve not to be a laughingstock."

"You aren't a laughingstock. These men ridicule each other all the time; it's part of our repartee."

"But not a part of ours." He sniffled back a tear. "They said some awful things about me, and you were snickering along with them as if you weren't sucking cock like an old pro six hours ago."

"You really think I'm that good?"

"You're fantastic, but that's not the point."

"I promise you, I'll tell them about us. Just give me a few –"

"Stop making promises you won't keep!" Smithers swerved his chair around Burns and headed for their limousine.

"What are you doing?" said Burns. "The valet has the key!"

Smithers pulled out his keychain and unlocked the driver side door. "So do I." He lifted himself into the front seat, then bent over to fold up his wheelchair. He heaved it into the passenger seat up front and closed the door just before Burns got there.

Hands on the side window, Burns said, "You can't drive! Your legs aren't fully functional. What if you can't apply the deceleratrix?"

"Watch me." Smithers started slowly backing up the limousine, and Burns jumped a step back.

"Where are you going? Smithers? You're not going to leave without me, are you?"

Smithers kept backing out of the space, then once straightened out, he stopped in front of Burns and rolled down the passenger window. "Give me one good reason not to."

"I love you?"

"It's only a good reason if I can believe it." He started rolling the window up, and Burns slipped his hand between the glass and the frame of the car. Smithers kept rolling the window up, and Burns withdrew his hand. Smithers peeled out of the parking lot, then sped off on the city streets.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Moe was wiping a beer mug with a rag when the door swung open and Smithers rolled halfway through the threshold before the door swung back on him. He pushed it open again and thrust his wheels into motion so he could clear the entrance before the door hit him again. "Hey Smithers, I haven't seen you here since that car crash scrambled your brains." Smithers pulled up to the edge of the bar and stood up from his chair to sit on a bar stool. "Whoa, there, you were faking the whole 'crippled' thing? I sent you a card! You owe me $3.50."

"I didn't fake anything. Unlike some people I know..." Smithers sighed in frustration. "I didn't get completely paralyzed. I just have difficulty walking."

"I hear a story coming," said Moe, setting down the mug he was wiping. "Let me get you a drink, and you can tell me what Burns did this time."

"He – wait, why did you assume I was going to talk about Mr. Burns?"

"Because it's always about Burns."

"Fair enough."

"So, whaddaya want?"

"Scotch, and lots of it." Moe started pouring into a glass and slid it to him on the bar. "I trusted him, Moe. But he's not the man I thought he was."

"What'd he do?"

Smithers took a long gulp, then set the nearly empty glass on the counter. "He brought me to a social club, telling me he wanted to get them to respect me more, and at first, that's how he acted. I started to feel truly accepted by his inner circle. But after some of the guys started mocking me for being who I am, he joined in and upped the ante. I mean, we were playing poker, but –"

"Yeah, I getcha. Waylon, I'll tell you what I would say whenever Burns acted this way: you could do better. Why are you so hung up on this scuzzball?"

"I don't remember."

"Huh. That's a new one. Usually, when I asked you that about Burns, you'd start waxing poetical, y'know?"

Smithers finished the last of his Scotch. "Another." As Moe poured his second drink, Smithers said, "Yeah, well, I was only pretending to be in love with Mr. Burns to cover for my relationship with – this other guy. He's in the closet, but he told me he'd come out tonight. Then he changed his mind and started ridiculing me, talking like I have no self-control and am obsessed with ass-fucking. I expect that from the average guy, but not from the man who told me he loves me more than anything."

"Well, that's rough. You tried telling him to shut his clam hole?"

"Essentially."

"And what'd he say?"

"He tried telling me he loves me, but he's lied and said cruel things so often, how can I believe that?"

"Don't tell me you swallowed that malarkey."

"I didn't. I shut the door in his face and left without him." Smithers finished his second Scotch, and Moe was already pouring his third when he gestured for another. "I don't understand. He was so sweet and loving to me after the accident. I fell in love with him, again. Why did I have to fall in love with him again? I would've been better off if he'd just dumped me that day and I never remembered him."

"Then why don't you break up with him?"

"I wish I knew." He began drinking his next glass, then said, "I thought I knew him. I thought I knew myself. But now I realize, ever since the accident, I've lost everything. Or maybe I never had anything to begin with." He started crying into his forearm. "I just want to forget."

* * *

Back at the old Stonecutter Lodge, the men gathered around the poker table uncomfortably shifted in their seats, silent and dumbfounded over the revelations that Burns and Smithers were in an intimate relationship and suffering a crisis.

"Well, I feel like an ass," said the Rich Texan, putting down his cards on the table.

"Don't feel too bad," said Ziff. "We all know that old pro is the biggest ace-hole here."

Brockman said, "So, are we going to tell them we heard everything?"

"No," said Krusty, methodical. "We'll keep it quiet – for now. Then the next time he tries to blackmail one of us – zam! We threaten to expose him."

Quimby said, "I like the way you think."

Burns hurried past the foyer and through the Great Hall, averting his face from the eyes of his fellow club members as he approached the poker table and gathered his and Smithers' chips. "I'm going to need to redeem our chips."

"Here you go," said Ziff, giving Burns cash for his chips.

"What about Waylon's money?"

"Please, if we gave you his cash, you'd just pocket it."

"I would do no such –" Burns started, indignant. "Wait – yes, you're probably right."

"He can pick it up later."

"Or you could give me the cash, and I'll write a check out to him."

"And trust you not to rip it to shreds and pretend we didn't give you the cash? We're not falling for that one again."

"Fine. Give me the cash, then I'll write a check to him and you can mail that check to him."

"Or you could just send him an eCheck."

"An e...Check. Oh, yes, that's one of those things Smithers was badgering me about learning." They walked him through the process of sending an eCheck, and then he left for the foyer, where he called a taxi.

* * *

Smithers was face down on the bar counter, empty glasses surrounding him, then lifted his head to say to Moe, "Another."

"Sorry, we're fresh out."

"Then gimme some vodka!"

Moe did a double-take. "You went through two bottles already? It's a good thing I watered it down so much, or frankly, you'd be a goner." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't usually do this, but hey, there's a first time for everything. You drank a fifth of whisky. I'm gonna hafta cut you off."

Smithers tried to grab Moe by his bow tie but missed and grabbed his bar apron. "Listen to me, you swill-slinging troll, I said..." Smithers swayed and fell backward off his barstool.

Moe peered over the side of the bar. "Geez, are you okay?"

Smithers looked up and toward his wheelchair, his head wobbling. "Well, I guess it's time to... to go... where my sleeping... does."

"You need me to call you a cab or something?"

"No, I'll get... Uber." He got his phone out and opened the Uber app while still lying on the floor.

"Oh, for crying out loud," said Moe, getting in front of the bar. "Smithers, I can't have you lying on my bar floor. The authorities were very clear about that when they fined me for letting Barney spend a weekend there." He helped Smithers up into his wheelchair. "There you go. Now, go home and sleep it off," he said, pushing Smithers out the front door of the bar. "I wish all my drunks came in with wheelchairs. That would sure make the ol' drunk toss a lot easier on the lumbar."

On the sidewalk outside, Smithers held his phone up, trying to get an Uber, but his coordination was so drastically impaired that he couldn't make his fingers touch any of the buttons. He grunted in frustration, and then the phone slipped out of his hands and into a storm drain. "Fuck!" He tried to stomp the ground in frustration but had little strength or coordination and just flailed, screaming angrily. "At least I still have my keys." He rolled himself slowly to the side of the building where the limousine was and got his key in after a few minutes of cursing and trying. Behind the wheel, he put his key into the ignition and drove out into the Springfield night bathed in the atomic glow of lamplights, headed for the one place that still made sense to him.

* * *

 _Waylon, where are you?_

 _Text me so I know you're okay._

 _I'm sorry, Waylon. I screwed up. I should have come out when I had the chance._

 _I love you. I can't stand that you're hurting because of me._

 _Please, answer me._

 _Let me know you're okay._

 _Please, Waylon._

Burns stumbled out of a taxi, tossing a gold certificate at the driver just before he sped away, and made his way in a zig zag to the front door to Moe's. After taking a minute to stagger toward the counter, Burns grasped at the bar to steady his arm while the rest of him swayed wildly. "I've been kicked out of -hic- three high-class bars and need a dive where I can drink myself into... into oblivion."

"This is the place."

Burns collapsed onto a bar stool, the same stool Smithers had sat at. "Give me a martini."

"Whoa, whoa, there, Rockefeller, what do you think this place is, the Ritz? We don't got no vermouth since prohibition was in effect."

"Then gin and tonic water."

"All-righty," said Moe, dusting off a bottle of gin, then pouring and mixing with tonic, then handing it to Burns. "There you go. Say, what brings you to a joint like this? The first time I saw you here, you was run out by a mob."

Burns gulped down half his gin and tonic. "I told you, they cut me off ev'rywhere else," he said, speaking slowly yet heavily slurring.

"No, I mean, what's got you wanting to get stinking?"

"I've lost the love of my life. The only meaningful relationship I'll ever have, and I pissed it away. For what? Dignity? Respect? Do I _look_ dignified to you?" he yelled, lifting his head from the bar and belligerently demanding an answer.

"Why, uh, sure! Sure, you look dignified."

"No, I don't!" he barked, then wept into his arm. "Why can't I be kind to the one person I _want_ to be kind to? Why do I lie and push him away?"

Moe's eyes opened wide, and he slid the glass of gin and tonic a few inches away from Burns as he sobbed. He looked to his side and saw that only Barney was there, sitting slumped on a stool on the other side of the bar. Leaning close to Burns' ear, Moe said, "Waylon does love you. But you gotta show him respect. He was here about half an hour ago, and –"

"He was?"

"Yeah, and he was real depressed, like I never seen him before. He said he doesn't know who you are anymore, or even who he is."

"Did he say where he's going?"

"I think he caught an Uber home."

"I must leave," he said, holding up a bill and examining it for a few seconds with his bleary eyes, then slapping it on the bar. Moe pocketed it, not mentioning it was a hundred dollar bill and not a ten. "I must say I'm sorry and make it up to him."

"Hold up there, 'sorry' isn't going to cut it. No, you need to do something real drastic, and fast."

"Like what?" Burns hiccuped.

"Like remind him of what attracted him to you in the first place."

"Such as?"

"How the hell should I know? I'm lucky if I can attract customers." As Burns stood to leave, Moe said, "Wait, I did hear one thing. He said he loved how you were when you were caring for him."

"Oh." He swung the door open and called for a taxi. _So he was only infatuated with me because I was taking care of him, some kind of reverse Florence Nightingale syndrome. He mistook his crush for something more, and now I've twisted his heart up even more. It's that Dumb Texan's fault! He's the one who egged me on. I was only trying to keep from revealing my secret so indecorously, especially since I'd just passed up the chance to announce it in a dignified fashion._ He checked his watch. _Still no taxi._ He suddenly had the urge to vomit and fell to his knees, vomiting into the gutter. Wiping his chin, he thought, _I'd better take a look to see where he left the car so we can retrieve it tomorrow._

He walked to the corner of the building and scanned the parking lot. Moe's car was there, and Barney's car was there, and one other beaten up car with a cracked side view mirror was there. _Where is the limo?_ Burns' heart raced. _What if someone jumped Smithers as he left? What if someone stole my limousine?_ He stumbled quickly back into the bar. "My limousine is... gone!"

"What?" said Moe. "That don't sound right. Smithers was calling an Uber. I saw him on his phone. I would'na let him drive after a fifth of whisky."

"I have a tracker on my car – a _fifth_ of whisky?" He opened up the app on his phone and looked at the map. "He's driving," he said, "and he's heading for –" Burns gasped. "I need to go." He left the bar again, then remembered he still had to wait for the Just Take Me Home taxi. To his relief, it arrived within a minute, and he directed the driver to follow. "He just got on Sign Street. Hurry!"

"Okay, but where are we going?" asked the taxi driver, a man in his thirties with a wise guy voice.

"We're following my car! He's going to the Springfield sign, now step on it!" As they reached Sign Street, they began uphill the winding road, and Burns noticed his car had stopped. "The car is parked. We should catch up in a few minutes." Burns kept a close eye on his tracking app as their location inched closer to Smithers'. They passed the turn-off to get to the sign, but they still hadn't caught up to Smithers.

And then, they passed him.

"Wait! Stop!" shouted Burns, and the driver slowly brought the cab to a stop. "It says we've passed him, but I didn't see anything. Did you?"

"It might help me answer that if you told me what your car _looks_ like."

"It's a 1952... uh, Rolls Royce... Midnight Dawn limousine."

"Nope, I haven't seen any vehicles on this road yet."

"Go back, then!" The driver turned around and went back the other way, but again, they passed him without seeing him. "Stop," said Burns. Once the car had stopped, Burns got out. "I'm going to look on foot. Stay here."

"I can't stay parked in the middle of the –" Burns threw a fifty dollar bill at him and staggered along the side of the road. He came across some tire tracks cutting through the grass between some bushes and followed them up a gentle slope. He reached the top of the slope, and then he saw it. "Waylon!" There was a steep drop of only a few feet, then a relatively flat area leading up to a cliff, and right at the cliff's edge, Burns' limousine was precariously perched.

He climbed over a small boulder, falling down onto the dirt and grass on the other side, then tripped over a rock and fell to the ground. Scrambling on hands and knees, he caught up to the car, squinting through the dark to try to spot Smithers. Without hesitation, he swung his legs over the rock of the cliff's edge to get a better grip on the door handle, only to glimpse the rocky bottom of a 60 foot drop. Burns gasped. He had been falling and stumbling for the last hour. One wrong step, and both of them could be done for.

He opened the door as gingerly as if the handle were the wires of a bomb he was disarming and carefully pulled it open, the hood of the car teetering over the cliff's edge as he did. "Waylon! You have to get out!" He shined his phone flashlight on Smithers' face and saw he was passed out, slumped in his seat. He pulled his legs back up from the cliff's edge and slipped inside, set the parking brake, and climbed over Smithers' lap to get some leverage to pry him out. As he got into the passenger seat, he heard the chassis creaking. "Oh, no, this isn't good."

He pulled out his phone again and dialed 9-1-1. "We need a medical trolley! We're near the Springfield sign teetering over a cliff."

"What's going on?" said the dispatcher.

"Smithers is unconscious and our car is teetering over a cliff! There is a taxi stopped on the road near us."

"Okay, sir, if you could just stay on the line and give us some information."

"There's no time! I have to try to get him to safety." He put his phone down on the seat beside him, directing his focus to Smithers, who was beginning to vomit, and Burns held him so he wouldn't choke. A few tears flowed from Burns' eyes as he recognized he was the reason Smithers had drank so much. "How could I have done this to you?" He aborted the rescue attempt and focused on holding Smithers from the side, stroking his back and chest and speaking soothingly to him, hoping he could hear.

"I am so sorry. When I wake up and see your beautiful face, I just want to go back to sleep so I can wake up to it again, and again and again. When we're holding each other is the only time I feel at peace. When I'm at work, I think about you, and I want nothing more than to hear your voice and see your smile." Burns wept into Smithers' shoulder. "I'm sorry I've never been good at telling you these things. I'm sorry I've been such a coward about our relationship. I'm sorry I drove you to drink. I'm sorry for everything I've ever done to you, because even my best was never good enough, because you _are_ my love and my life, and I cherish you." He kissed Smithers' cheek. "I love you, Waylon."

Smithers opened his eyes, and he startled. "W-where am I?"

"You're in the limousine. There was an accident. Calm down," said Burns, running his hands up and down Smithers' chest, hoping to soothe him to stop him from flailing and rocking the car over the edge. He held Smithers tight, pressing their cheeks together. "I love you so much."

"Who are you?"

Burns' stomach sank lower than when he had spotted the drop-off. _Oh, no. Not again._ "I'm Monty Burns. Waylon, tell me you remember."

"Why am I trapped here? Get me outta here!" He grunted and flailed, and they heard a sound resembling the snapping of metal, only stirring more panic in Smithers.

"Shush, shush," said Burns, squeezing Smithers as if he were a life preserver on the open sea. "Just calm down. We're okay. I have you." He kissed Smithers' lips. "Trust me, and we'll get through this just fine." He glanced apprehensively at the driver side door still tottering with the wind and the subtle swaying of the limousine. "I'm going to get you out, but I need your help. I can't lift you all on my own. I'm going to help push you out, and you grab onto the sturdiest rocks you can."

"Where are we? What's going on?"

"You crashed my limousine, and now it's teetering over a cliff. It looks over fifty feet, and there are jagged rocks at the bottom. Don't fall, but don't panic."

Smithers' eyes slowly closed, and he murmured, "But why...?" then slipped into unconsciousness again, his head drooping forward.

"I've got to do this myself, then." He pushed and shoved with all his bodyweight, but he still struggled to budge him even an inch. After all, Smithers was roughly twice his weight. The metal creaked more, and Burns' heart raced. He rubbed Smithers arms and cheeks vigorously, trying to get him to stir, but it was to no avail. "I can't. I can't do it, I can't save you." He clutched Smithers tight against his chest. "I'm so sorry. You saved my life, and I can't return the favor." He sighed, looking over Smithers' worn and battered body. "You should have just let that truck hit me."

He heard the sound of an oncoming siren, and a minute later, voices of paramedics, two men and a woman, arriving on scene. "Mr. Smithers, we're paramedics and we're here to help, can you hear us?"

"Smithers is unconscious."

"And who are you, sir?"

"Mr. Burns."

"All right, Mr. Burns, have you heard any slight noises or felt small movements in the car."

"More than slight. It was terrifying."

"Then you want to get out ASAP. We can tie a harness around each of you, then pull you out the open door." They sent a couple of harnesses hanging from poles to them, and Burns followed their instructions to secure it around Smithers. While preparing to attach his own harness, the car made a sustained sound of metal buckling. "Hurry!"

"I'm pushing Smithers out now!"

"No! The acceleration will send the car over the cliff and you with it!"

"I've made up my mind!" He used all his weight and pushed Smithers out, causing a recoil and tipping the car over the edge of the cliff. Unable to leave through the door, now several feet below the top of the overhang, he slipped through the partition to the passenger compartment in the back and braced for impact.

 _At least if he doesn't remember me, my death won't pain him._

* * *

 **AUTHOR NOTE:** **Apologies for the cliffhanger.**


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

Smithers woke up to the steady beeping of a machine tracking his heartbeat, a ventilator down his throat, hissing with every breath it imparted to him. _My head is killing me._ He looked up at the bright fluorescent lights of the ceiling, then scanned his periphery, seeing the blurry medical equipment. _I must be in the hospital. What happened?_ He shut his eyes again. _I was at a fancy party, right? Monty was coming out about our relationship._ He pictured his bespoke cashmere suit. _Then..._ He drew a blank. _What then?_

His memory flashed back to waking up in the ambulance.

" _Waylon, are you with me?" a paramedic asked him. "You're in an ambulance. We're taking you to the hospital."_

" _What happened?"_

" _You crashed the car. How much alcohol did you drink tonight?"_

" _Is Monty okay?"_

 _"Paramedics are taking good_ _care of him, too. We need to know if you took anything else so we know how to help you."_

" _What happened to him?"_

Smithers opened his eyes wide in terror. _What if I killed him?_ Tears began to drip out of the corners of his eyes. _Oh, my God! How could I have done this? I drove drunk! With Monty in the car! This is the worst thing I've ever done. I didn't deserve to survive this._ More tears flowed freely down his cheek. _Oh, Lord, I... I don't deserve forgiveness. I just pray he's still alive. Just give me that, and I can live with that._

A nurse walked in and noticed Smithers was awake and notified the doctors and other nurses, then went to his side. Noticing his tears, she said, "Are you in pain? Hold on and we'll get that tube out of you in a jif." Some other nurses came in and helped extubate him.

Finally able to breathe and talk on his own, Smithers gasped for air and grabbed at the scrubs of the nearest nurse and said, "Is he alive?" _He has to be._ It was the only way he could bring himself to ask the question: convince himself the answer was what he so desperately needed it to be.

"Is who alive?"

"Monty Burns!"

"Yes, he's been admitted."

"Oh, thank God!"

"Is there anything you need?"

"No. He's alive. That's all I need."

The nurses left, and Dr. Hibbert came in soon after. "Hello, Waylon. You must like this hospital a lot, since you keep coming back here." He chuckled. "But seriously, how are you doing?"

"How is Monty? Can I see him?"

Dr. Hibbert sat on the edge of his bed and rested his hand on the back of Smithers'. "Mr. Burns is alive. Be grateful for that."

"Are you trying to say he'll be a vegetable?"

"If he survives, that is a distinct possibility."

"What do you mean, _if_ he survives? He's alive now, and you'd better keep him that way if you don't want a malpractice case on your hands!"

"His injuries were severe. We can't promise that he won't decompensate. There are still some outcomes we medical men have no choice but to leave to fate."

"This is all my fault," Smithers said, sobbing into his pillow. "How can I live with myself, knowing I did this to him? How could I drive drunk with him in the car? Or at all?"

"Whoa, hold on a minute. Mr. Burns wasn't in the car with you when you were driving."

"He wasn't? Then how did he get injured?"

"According to the paramedics, he took a taxi to track you down, then when he saw you were passed out in the car on the edge of a 60-foot cliff, he tried to get you out himself. When the paramedics arrived on scene, he was in the car with you. They gave you some harnesses so they could pull you both out of the car to safety, but after he put yours on, the car began to roll, and instead of putting his own harness on, he pushed you out of the car and stayed inside while the car fell down the cliff."

"He saved me..." Smithers' lip wobbled. "That beautiful man saved me, after I stupidly almost got myself killed."

"I think you should hear the 9-1-1 call. We've been listening to a recording of it in the break room." Dr. Hibbert pulled out a digital audio recorder and transcriber, then pressed the play button. Smithers looked at it intently as he listened. They heard Burns' voice in the background:

"I am so sorry. When I wake up and see your beautiful face, I just want to go back to sleep so I can wake up to it again, and again and again. When we're holding each other is the only time I feel at peace. When I'm at work, I think about you, and I want nothing more than to hear your voice and see your smile." The sound of Burns weeping choked Smithers up, making his throat feel more constricted than when he'd had the breathing tube in. "I'm sorry I've never been good at telling you these things. I'm sorry I've been such a coward about our relationship. I'm sorry I drove you to drink. I'm sorry for everything I've ever done to you, because even my best was never good enough, because you _are_ my love and my life, and I cherish you." At the sound of Burns kissing Smithers' cheek, Smithers lifted his fingertips to his cheek, reviving a faint memory. "I love you, Waylon."

"You're all playing that in the break room?" asked Smithers, and when Dr. Hibbert nodded, he said in disgust, "I get it, we're the biggest joke in Springfield, a town full of walking jokes."

"No, Mr. Smithers, you don't understand. We aren't playing it over to make fun of you. We're playing it over because in this line of work, we don't see much that gives us faith in humanity. But hearing how even a man like Mr. Burns can be as loving and altruistic as any hero – that's the kind of experience that lifts your spirits and keeps you from becoming too cynical."

"I want to see him."

"Yes, of course. Nurse Jane, help him into a wheelchair and to room 1." The nurse nodded and helped Smithers out of the hospital bed, making sure his IV line wasn't disturbed, and pushed him and the IV pole down the hallway to Burns' private room.

Upon seeing Burns lying there, every limb in a cast, his neck in a c-spine collar, lacerations on his face, Smithers dropped his jaw and wheeled himself up to Burns' bedside. "Monty..." Smithers leaned over him and spoke softly into his ear. "I'm so sorry, I'll never forgive myself, never ever." He kissed the outer lobe of Burns' ear. "Please, be okay. I need you to be okay." He looked up to Dr. Hibbert. "Can I be moved to this room? I want to be here when he wakes up." Seeing he was mulling it over, Smithers added, "You heard what he said on the recording about wanting to wake up to see my face."

"I know," said Dr. Hibbert, "but his paperwork is extremely explicit that he is not to share his room with anyone but essential support staff. It might get us into trouble with legal."

"I'm still technically his employee, and I'd be providing him support."

Dr. Hibbert smiled and said, "Well, then, we'll get your bed moved in here."

The techs moved a bed and machines into the room beside Burns and helped Smithers onto it. He faced Burns, watching as the ventilator made Burns' chest slowly rise with fresh breaths of air, and repeated a silent prayer until he fell asleep again.

Days passed, Smithers waking and sleeping and waking again, Burns remaining as silent and unmoving as an old tree on a day without a breeze. Smithers refused food each time he was offered, not wanting to eat while Burns could not. Dr. Hibbert warned him that if he continued to refuse food the next day, they'd put in a nasogastric tube to feed him. "Do what you have to," he said.

The following day, Smithers was so wracked with guilt he cried inconsolably. Dr. Hibbert began to order a sedating shot before stopping himself. "That would just put off dealing with it until later. Call a psych consult," he said to the nearest nurse.

Ten minutes later, Dr. Kowalski walked into the room, where he saw Smithers crying into the shoulders of an orderly who was preventing him from giving himself an electric shock from the outlet where his monitoring machines were plugged in. He saw Burns was unconscious and ascertained Smithers was the one to concern himself with. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice calm.

Dr. Hibbert said, "Waylon is going through a crisis. He feels guilty because Mr. Burns injured himself saving him after he drove drunk and crashed, and he refuses to eat and just tried to electrocute himself."

"I see. I can take it from here. Just leave a couple of orderlies." Dr. Hibbert nodded and left with the nurses. Walking to the foot of Smithers' bed, he said, "Waylon, I've heard you're going through hell."

Smithers collapsed into a ball on his bed, pressing his head against his knees. "It's nothing compared to what I've put Monty through."

"Listen, I'm not going to pretend you did nothing wrong. You did. But he risked his life for you because he loves you, and he wants you to go on living, the same reason you risked your life to save him. If you killed yourself or even just spent the rest of your life moping, then he'd be going through this for nothing."

Smithers shut his eyes and sniffled. "I guess you're right."

"It's natural that you're feeling worried, depressed, guilty. Honor those feelings, but don't let them take over you."

"I'll try," he said, laying his head back on his pillow.

"Monty must really think you're special to risk his life for you. I didn't think he would do that for anyone, not even someone he claimed to love."

"I guess."

"I heard his 9-1-1 call in the break room. He said he drove you to drink."

"It's still my fault I drove."

"Okay. That's your perspective, and I largely agree. But he faults himself."

"Maybe he feels like it's all his fault, but that doesn't mean it actually is."

"I agree with you on that. Maybe you should apply that logic to yourself. You did something reckless when you were in a state of despair. He chose to put himself at risk to save you. He could have just waited for paramedics to help you, but he decided to act on his own. He made those choices while you were unconscious."

"He never would've had to if I hadn't –"

"He didn't 'have to' do anything. Mr. Burns would never lift a finger to help someone, especially at his own personal risk, if it wasn't something _he_ wanted to do." He put a hand on Smithers' shoulder and looked toward Burns. "He really does love you. He wants you to be healthy and enjoy your life. How would you have felt if after you pushed him out of the way of that car, you woke up in the hospital and found out he'd killed himself?" Smithers gasped. "What if you found out he had to be tube-fed because he was so depressed about you he wouldn't eat?"

"I would feel awful."

"Then do him a favor by being kind to yourself. Do you think you can do that?" Smithers nodded. "Good. Can we get you anything to eat?"

Smithers nodded. "Some fruit cocktail would be nice."

"Very good. We'll get that for you. I'll leave an orderly here to keep an eye on you just in case, but I have confidence you'll be okay. Getting some food in your belly can only help your mental health. Hang in there, Waylon."

He left, and when a nurse tech brought in a tray with four cups of fruit cocktail and a spoon, Smithers tore off the lid of one, got a spoonful of syrupy fruit, looked at Burns, and said, "For you, Monty," then brought the spoon to his lips. His appetite kicked into gear, and he devoured the four fruit cups in short order.

His mood elevated, he took a closer look at the old Victrola turntable between their beds. A record was in it, and Smithers sat up and reached over to start it playing. As he listened to a 1937 recording of the prelude of _Tristan und Isolde_ , his eyes grew tired, and he laid back on his bed, closing his eyes every couple minutes. Each time he shut them, he saw vividly Burns sitting next to him in their opera box, the reflection of the stage lights casting Burns in an ethereal glow as his customary scowl yielded to an expression of yearning, and as the violins and flutes soared six minutes in, and Smithers realized his expression must have matched Burns' for his own longing, except for the object of his fixation. Whereas Burns' gaze was directed away from the physically present and toward some unknown horizon, Smithers' eyes were firmly fixed on Burns' own fiery gaze. Smithers knew this was too real to be a dream. It was his recollection of the last time they'd seen that opera. As he drifted off to sleep, the feeling of wanting to hold Burns' hand and being unable to overwhelmed the nerves of his hands with a restless itch deep beneath the skin. It was an itch he felt he had lived with for decades.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Burns shuttered his eyes open, his world a confusing, bright whir of beeping and sterile fluorescence providing the backdrop to some unfamiliar shouting and horns. He had no idea where he was, what had happened to him, and why he couldn't talk, but he caught a glimpse of Smithers out of the corner of his eye, and there was one thing he knew: Smithers was with him. For the time being, that was enough.

Seeing him stir, Smithers leapt out of his bed into his wheelchair and pulled up by Burns' bedside and stroked his cheek. Burns came to distinguish the voices as German, then came to recognize them and the music as from _Tristan und Isolde_. Dr. Hibbert came in to check on him and removed his breathing tube. After taking a moment to adjust to breathing on his own again, Burns said in a hoarse voice, "Waylon..." Smithers put his arm around the cast of Burns' forearm. "You're okay." Burns' lips wobbled as his eyes moistened with tears of relief, and Smithers stood to lean over him and unite their lips.

After a series of passionate kisses, Smithers touched their noses together and said, "I'm so sorry, Monty, I'll never forgive myself for as long as I live."

"No. I'm sorry." He looked Smithers over, noting he didn't seem to have any serious injury, and smiled. "I'm just glad you're well. And you remember me."

"Of course I do. You don't know how glad I am to hear your sweet voice again." He kissed Burns' cheek. "I love you." He kissed Burns' nose, and Burns kissed his cheek. "I love you so much."

Burns let out a worried sigh. "Still?"

"Of course I still love you!"

"I would think you were an angel, but an angel would know better."

"Monty, I don't understand what you mean."

"I'm... tired."

"Oh. Of course you are, sweetheart." He kissed Burns' forehead. "I'll let you rest." He switched the record that had stopped playing a moment earlier, then sat back in his bed, gazing at Burns' closed eyes and slackened jaw, amazed at how much more lively he seemed even in sleep.

* * *

Burns would repeatedly wake for short periods before going back to sleep, and Smithers would seize the opportunity to talk to him and give him gifts. Once Burns awoke to a bouquet of flowers Smithers had ordered him, another time to a teddy bear half the size of Bobo holding a plush red silken heart with "I Love You" embroidered in white, and another to a wad of cash Smithers had retrieved from his belongings. Each time, his face brightened, and Smithers felt a smidge less gnawing agony about his part in Burns' injuries.

After a few more days, when Burns could hold a conversation with Smithers for longer than five minutes without succumbing to sleep, Smithers felt compelled to make a more heartfelt apology than a standard romantic gesture.

"Monty, I'm so sorry."

Burns sighed. "You keep saying that."

"I don't know what else I can do. I can't turn back the clock. I've given you money, a teddy bear, flowers, sponge baths... I don't know how I could possibly express the depth of my regret."

"You apologize to me as if you're the one who gravely wronged me."

"Because I am. I did. I don't see any way to make up for it. Except maybe jail..."

"Don't concern yourself. I have a standing bribe with this hospital that covers you. They won't alert the constabulary to your indiscretion."

"It's more than an indiscretion. I endangered your life."

"Twaddle! I drove you to it."

"Whatever you did couldn't possibly be as bad as me driving drunk and making you risk your life to save me."

"You never would have done so if not for me." Burns closed his eyes, exhausted and his pain increasing at the remembrance, as all he saw whenever he closed his eyes was Smithers' sad, unconscious form behind the wheel, a trail of vomit from his chin and a trail of blood from his nose. "You could have died."

"Don't let me off the hook so easily. I'm the one who put the key in the ignition."

"Do you remember what happened that led you to turn that key?" said Burns as it occurred to him that he might not remember. Smithers shook his head "no." "I told you I was going to be open about us, but when the moment came... I lost my nerve. Not only that – I joined the others in ridiculing you, just to throw them off the scent."

"I understand being afraid to come out. I understand wanting to confide your love for someone and chickening out. I understand –" Smithers opened his eyes wide in epiphany.

"You don't understand. This was no isolated incident. This is how I've always treated you. It's how I'll keep treating you."

"I'm remembering something."

"Have you listened to a word I've said?"

"I'm remembering something from before the accident – the first one. We were outside on a hot day, and we had ice cream cones in our hands. I was trying to tell you I loved you, and I finally did. But then I made up some baloney about loving your shirt."

"Waylon, I depressed you so terribly, you drank a fifth of whiskey and almost drove yourself off a cliff. And it wasn't the first time I've turned you into such a wreck."

"Clearly, we've both made some terrible mistakes."

"Nothing has hurt me more than when I held your incapacitated body in my arms, watching you nearly choke on your own vomit and knowing it was all because of me."

"I understand that pain. God, I understand that. Before I found out you were alive, I'd decided I couldn't live with myself if you'd died saving me from my own reckless choice."

"You still don't understand. I've treated you this way more times than I can count, and yet, no matter what I've done, you've always forgiven me. I used to be grateful for that, but now your forgiveness is a dagger in my heart."

"That's how I feel about you blaming yourself for all this."

"Waylon, we need to part ways."

"What?"

"I can't cause you any more suffering. You've taught me guilt, and I was much happier when I lived without it."

"You don't want to cause me suffering? What did you think breaking up with me would cause? Joy?"

"The closer I get to you, the more I seem to hurt you. I can't live with myself if I keep hurting you this way, and I don't know how to stop myself."

"Tell me this isn't happening. Please, Monty, tell me it's just the pain meds talking."

"Listen carefully," said Burns, eyes big and glistening with tears. "I need you to forget about me, again."

"I can't forget about you."

"You must try. It's for the best."

"I would if I could." Smithers' tears washed his glasses and blurred his vision. "You should have just dumped me after the accident, like so many barrels of radioactive waste."

"Oh, no, you see, we were never a couple. I lied about that. Well, you assumed, and I lied to keep you believing. Trust me, Waylon, if I had known it would end this way, I would have never put you through this."

"Please, no more lies. Lying about the past won't make anything better."

"No, I'm telling the truth. For once, I am telling you the truth. I've always cared about you in one way or another, and I had developed tender feelings for you in the months before the accident, but I never acted upon them, afraid you would return my affection with disgust. Evidently, you had feelings for me, as well, and when I kissed you in the hospital, it gave you the idea we were an item. Once I realized what you were assuming, I played along with it, because those were the memories you deserve. And it's the way I wanted to remember our life together. I still want to remember our life that way."

"I can't believe it."

"I know, I'm a cad for manipulating you."

"I can't believe you're still so ashamed of being my boyfriend that you'd make up such an absurd lie so you can pretend you were never courting a man."

"No, Waylon, this has nothing to do with –"

"Right after you were crying about how much it hurt you to make me suffer."

"I am not ashamed of you; I'm ashamed of myself!"

"Lie about the past all you want, it won't change the facts."

"I am not lying!"

"Fact: you were having the time of your life when we were in bed together. Fact: you practically _begged_ me to take you. Fact: you're attracted to at least one man, and no matter how much you disavow our relationship, you're not straight, you never were straight, and you'll never be straight."

"I won't deny that I love you. Not anymore."

"If you loved me, you wouldn't be trying to convince me we were never in a relationship."

"It's because I love you that I'm telling you the truth. We weren't intimate partners until after you saved my life."

Smithers furrowed his brow, then slowly began to nod. "That _would_ explain a lot."

"I wanted you, but I could never bring myself to risk acknowledging my desire. You're the only true friend I have, and I feared losing our friendship more than anything."

"So we haven't been dating for twenty years, we've been dating less than... than twenty months?"

"Yes."

"Good Lord! What else is a lie? I'm going to find out you're the one who killed my father?"

"Of course not. Although, indirectly I may bear some responsibility, but you remembered the manner of his demise on your own, so that would hardly count as one of my deceptions."

"Or what, you're the one who hit me with your car? Is that why you've been acting so guilty?"

"Now you're speaking nonsense."

"No. I was speaking nonsense when I was swallowing your lies!"

"I am not lying now."

"How can I tell? Every other word out of your mouth is a lie." Smithers winced. "I wish I never loved you."

Burns gasped, his heart sinking for a moment before he scowled and said, "Well, I never loved you! You're nothing more than a lackey to me."

Smithers' lips wobbled, but he stiffened his upper lip and got into his wheelchair, then left the room, slamming the door behind him. After an hour, some nurse techs came to move Smithers' bed and monitoring equipment out of the room. Burns gulped and asked, "What about Smithers?"

"He was discharged," said one.

"Oh." Burns shut his eyes tightly to keep the tears at bay. "At least that was the last time I'll ever hurt you."


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

Burns looked forlornly to the side of the room where Smithers' bed used to stand. "Who was I kidding? I'm not meant for true love." He closed his eyes, remembering the tender touch of Smithers' hand across his cheek as a tear slid down it. "Still..." He smiled as he thought of Smithers telling him he loved him. "It was such a beautiful illusion."

* * *

Smithers threw another sock into his suitcase, angry movements masking his sorrow. "I can't believe I let that old man play me like that," he said to his mother as he slammed the suitcase shut and fell back on Burns' bed. "I can't believe I ever thought he l-loved..." She put a reassuring hand on his shoulder as he wept.

"I know you loved him, but he's just not the kind of man who can give of himself the way you wanted. Selfless love is in your blood, as it was in your father's, and it makes you a wonderful man, but it opens you up to heartbreak. You could give and give until there was nothing left of you, and he still wouldn't reciprocate. He couldn't."

"You know, the funny thing is that even though we've only been dating for a few months, I feel like this is the end of... of a long marriage."

"You were in love with him for twenty years."

Smithers took the scroll of parchment Burns had written him from the nightstand and unfurled it, his eyes scanning the words. "I can't believe I did something as stupid as letting myself fall in love with him again."

"Don't blame yourself, honey. He even had me fooled, and I never liked him to begin with." Smithers grabbed the handle of his suitcase and dragged it behind him as he rolled himself toward the door. His mother took the suitcase handle from him, saying, "I'll get that," and following him out into the hall. "After I help you get settled back in your apartment, I expect you'll want some time to yourself."

"Yes."

"You can call me anytime."

"Thanks, Mom," he said in a mumble, his lips quavering as part of him still couldn't believe his relationship with Burns had fallen to pieces.

* * *

Dr. Hibbert walked into Burns' room and did a double-take when he saw no sign of Smithers left in the room. "You know Waylon is still allowed to be in this room after being discharged, right?"

"He won't be around here anymore. I dismissed him."

"What do you mean, dismissed?"

"I ended our partnership."

"Mr. Burns, I don't understand. In your 9-1-1 call, you called him the love of your life, the person you cherish more than anything, and now you break up with him? That makes about as much sense as vaseline on toast."

"Do you think I wanted him to leave?"

"Breaking up would usually suggest that."

"I only ended it because I love him too much to keep putting him through the pain that being with me was causing him."

"But you don't love him enough to simply... not hurt him?"

Burns' eyes widened at hearing it stated so plainly. "No. I don't." He felt a chill down to his stomach. "I wish I could. I thought I could, but I was clearly thinking wishfully."

"I don't believe that. I would have believed that a few weeks ago, but not now. You were prepared to sacrifice your life for him. You love him enough to put him first. You _are_ capable of treating him well."

"Then why do I keep hurting him?"

"That sounds like a question for your psychiatrist. Do you want me to bring him in?" Burns nodded feebly. "I'll get him," said Dr. Hibbert, leaving the room.

Burns' psychiatrist walked in a few minutes later, shaking his head. "Mr. Burns, you are the most maddening patient I've ever had." He sat down in a chair at his bedside and said incredulously, "You broke up with Waylon?"

"I told him the truth."

"Which truth?"

"That we weren't in a long-term committed relationship before his accident, and I only tricked him into thinking that."

"And he didn't take that well."

"No. He didn't."

"Then why does Dr. Hibbert say _you_ broke up with _him_?"

"He said he wished he never loved me, and it was too painful to stand. I told him I never loved him."

"That's not the truth though, is it?"

"No. No, it's not." He sniffled back a tear, his chin turned toward his chest, before looking plaintively into his psychiatrist's eyes. "Doc, why do I keep hurting him?"

Dr. Kowalski sighed a sigh of futility. "We've discussed this before. You believe you're unlovable, yet you fear rejection. Rather than risk a partner rejecting you, you sabotage the relationship so you can tell yourself that _you_ were the one who ended it. Nobody rejects you, but nobody can get close to you, either. If you want to have a healthy, loving relationship, you need to recognize that Waylon truly loves you, and that there are worse things in the world than risking rejection. Things like living out the rest of your life in solitude because you've pushed away everyone who ever cared about you."

"I do understand he loves me."

"Then you know he must be hurting, just as you are."

"How do I stop it? I've made a terrible mistake; I know I can afford him the tender treatment he deserves from now on, and I don't want him to hurt for another second because of me."

"There's no easy way to 'stop it.' But tell him how you feel. Apologize sincerely. It won't fix things right away. But it's a start, and at least he'll know you're thinking of him."

"Yes, that's what I must do. Hand me my phone."

* * *

Smithers had just said goodbye to his mother and begun to recline on his couch in his apartment when his phone chimed, a notification of a text message. He held the phone in front of his face.

Monty.

 _I am sorry, Waylon._

Smithers dropped his phone onto the floor beside him, letting it tumble until it landed face down next to his crutches. Notifications continued, and Smithers tore his glasses off his face, flung them to the floor, then turned back to bury his face into his couch cushion. After a few minutes punctuated by notification alerts, he turned around and reached for the phone, then yelled fruitlessly at it, "I don't want to talk to you!" He tossed it back to the floor and fell into a fitful sleep.

He dreamt he was at a cocktail party with Burns. The atmosphere was merry, as they laughed at each other's jokes, enjoyed drinks, and shared amusing anecdotes with the other guests. It felt so vividly real, he was sure it was an actual memory, until Burns took him by the hand, led him to a secluded alcove, and whispered in his ear, "I love you, Waylon." That moment felt like Burns' mind reaching out and touching his in the present. "Please, don't ever forget that I do love you."

Smithers awoke with a start, then heard his phone chime again. He stretched an arm out blindly for his glasses, then placed them back on his face and looked at his phone, seeing a whole stack of messages from Burns.

He unlocked the phone and looked at his messages.

 _I am sorry, Waylon._

 _I want you back. I only asked you to leave because I thought I couldn't help but keep hurting you if you stayed. I now realize I was wrong, and I do love you enough to treat you with kindness._

 _You are the best part of my life, Waylon. I adore you. I know I've erred recently as we are concerned, but since your car accident, I've treated you quite well, haven't I? I can continue to treat you with the respect you deserve, and I will. I promise._

 _I am truly sorry. I didn't mean what I said. I do love you. I have loved you for years now, but I couldn't bring myself to make a move and risk losing you. When you misconstrued our relationship as romantic in nature, it afforded me the perfect opportunity to indulge my tender feelings for you. Surely you understand my motives. You, too, were afraid to risk our friendship by asking me on a date._

 _I want us to be together. I want to make you feel better, because you're the only person I've enjoyed caring for. I want to wake with you beside me and share lazy Sunday mornings cuddling in bed together. I want to make up for all the times I concealed my love from you, from the world. Please give me the years so I can give them back to you._

 _Whatever your answer, know I will forever cherish our years together, especially our last few months. These last few months, for the first time in my life, I felt truly happy in a way I did not believe was possible. There is no one else I'd prefer share my bed and my life._

 _Please, answer me._

 _Waylon?_

 _Please, Waylon._

 _Remember I will always love you, no matter your answer._

 _Please, don't make me suffer the indignity of begging you._

 _I beg you, Waylon, just talk to me. I can accept if your answer is no._

 _Please, talk to me. I beg you._

 _I'll pay you a thousand dollars for five minutes of your time. Please don't make me go higher than that. I will, if necessary._

 _I know I sound desperate, and that's because I am. I don't know what I'd do without you._

 _I love you._

The messages spanned a couple of hours, and it had been forty minutes since the last one. Smithers read them over, then again and again, considering what kind of reply he should send. Nothing seemed adequate to express his feelings, namely because he couldn't decide between them. Unable to decide on words, he decided on an action.

While he was driving to the hospital, his phone chimed again. He glanced anxiously at the notification.

 _WAYLON SMITHERS, you have 1 prescription ready._

Of course, it was just the pharmacy letting him know his thyroid medication was ready. As his eyes focused on the road ahead of him, his mind drifted into a recollection – or perhaps it was a reverie – where he was lying still in a castle, at death's door, and he awoke to Burns' lips pressed against his. He remembered how he had thought that was the best damn way to wake from a nightmare. He also remembered that he had remembered this shortly after moving back in with Burns. _No, Waylon. We didn't live together until I came home from the hospital._ Smithers grimaced. _I still think of the manor as 'home.'_

He pulled into hospital parking and got his visitor badge, then made his way to Burns' private room. As he walked in, Burns lifted his head, his eyes brightening. "Waylon..."

Smithers looked into his eyes, unable to conceal his sorrow. "Monty."

"Thank you for coming to hear me out; I've been a fool, an absolute fool, and I'm ready to come to my senses." The look of relief on Burns' face faded as he saw Smithers only looking sadder.

"I'm afraid so am I," said Smithers, his face solemn.

"What the devil do you mean?"

"I'm not going to lie – I still love you. But you've lied to me at every turn."

"I only lied to –"

"No, Monty, you'll hear _me_ out. I know you've often been deceitful in your business dealings, but I remember enough of our life before to know that you were usually honest with me. Not always, but usually. If you were engaged in some illegal doing or double-crossing, you let me in on it. But even as nice as you've been to me since my accident, you've been going behind my back and deceiving me left and right, and I have every reason to believe that you would've kept it up indefinitely if I hadn't caught you."

"Well, you're probably right about that. But I'm committed to be honest to you from now on."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"How can I let myself believe that again?"

"Because I was only lying because I was afraid to lose you. If lying will only make me lose you, then I cannot risk lying to you again. I simply cannot afford to."

"But how can I believe that?" Burns opened his mouth but said nothing. "How can I believe you? It's not like you lied about buying a boat, or putting money in an offshore account, or even having an affair. You lied to me about my past – _our_ past – solely to manipulate me into doing what you wanted."

"That is not true. It wasn't _solely_ to manipulate you; it was also because that's how I wanted to remember our past. I wanted to believe it so badly, I was willing to lie to you, but I wasn't only lying to you – I was lying to myself."

"Except when you were lying to yourself, you knew what the truth really was. I didn't. You gave me memories of things that never happened. I still can't tell how much of what I remember of the past is real and how much was put there by you."

"I've made some mistakes, but I only made them to give you happier memories. Is that such a crime?"

"Spinning a tale of a fantasy world for me to live in was at least as much for your benefit as it was for mine."

"Don't forget your role in spinning that tale. By the time I deduced the nature of your confusion, you had clearly built up a romantic fantasy about our history. Who was I to burst your bubble, especially given I wanted to live inside it with you? Especially given my guilt..."

"You didn't want to live inside the bubble with me. You wanted to control the bubble so I didn't see anything you didn't want me to see, like your history of treating me with cruel indifference." Smithers furrowed his brow. "What guilt?"

"You almost died to save me."

"Well, now we're even and you can go back to living without guilt."

"It's more than that. The worst guilt wasn't that you were injured saving me – it was that I had taken you for granted and almost let you go to your grave without making it clear what you mean to me. Without treating you as you deserve."

"I'm sorry if I have a hard time buying this, but actions speak louder than words."

"Yes. That's why I pushed you out of my car and am in this hospital bed now. If I can love you enough to sacrifice myself, surely I can love you enough to treat you well."

"I'm sorry, Monty." He sniffled back a tear. "It's too late."

"No..." Burns said in a faint plea. "Please, give me another chance."

"I've given you chance after chance, and you just keep finding new ways to betray my trust."

"Please, give me one more chance. Not because I deserve it, but so I can give you some of the memories _you_ deserve. After that, you can leave me forever and I won't bother you again."

Smithers shook his head, then went into the adjoining private bathroom to retrieve a round sponge and fill a shallow basin with warm, soapy water. "I'll think about it," he said as he came back with the sponge, basin, and a stack of short towels. "Right now, it's time for your sponge bath." He sat beside Burns and cushioned his neck and head with a folded towel, then gently, lovingly ran the sponge over Burns' face.

"Thank you," said Burns as Smithers wiped the sweat from his brow. "No one knows his way around a sponge like you do."

Smithers smiled, thinking it was an odd yet sweet compliment as no one but Monty Burns could give. "I'll never forget the way your fingers felt, dancing along my scalp and shoulders." Smithers continued to freshen his sponge, then scrubbed slightly and softly behind his ears with the finesse of an artist making the finishing strokes of a painting.

"I hope that's not the only touch you found worthy of remembering. Or were you only flattering me?"

"I don't think I could fake flattery that well." Smithers laid towels along either side of Burns' torso, then brought the sponge down to his chest. "I thought you were just flattering me until you came home at lunch and jumped into my lap for some afternoon delight."

Burns furrowed his brow. "Why would you think anyone would need to flatter you?"

"You seemed pretty reluctant to make love to me on our first date re-enactment." Smithers stopped moving the sponge. "No, that really was our first date, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was."

"And that night was our first time together, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was." Smithers resumed his gentle scrubbing. "Waylon, you're a virile young man. How could you possibly think I find you anything other than utterly beguiling?"

"I told you, because you were very reluctant to make love to me." He squeezed soapy water onto Burns' underarms, then rinsed and patted them dry.

"But once we were in the midst of our amorous congress, surely my enthusiasm gave me away."

"Most of my doubts did fade that night. But they didn't really go away." He laid a towel over Burns' chest to keep him warm and dry.

"They should have."

"I kept thinking that maybe you were only enjoying yourself so much because you were picturing a younger, fitter version of me." Smithers turned Burns gradually to the side and laid more towels where he'd been lying.

"Poppycock. If anyone should be worrying about being eclipsed by his younger, fitter self, it's me." Smithers washed from the back of his neck down his spine, the sponge filling the nooks and crannies of his every vertebra. "All it would take for you to get back into prime condition is a few more weeks at the gym. I'm never going to be in my prime again, or anywhere close."

"You could have surprised me," said Smithers, washing his buttocks. He moaned softly as he made another thorough pass. "I don't know how I kept my attraction a secret from you for so long."

"You had years to get used to being 'just professional' with me. And it's much more difficult to go back to avoiding a forbidden fruit after you've gotten a taste of it."

"You've got that right." Smithers dipped the sponge in the basin and began to clean Burns' crotch.

"Honestly, what did you think you were doing with me?"

"Hm?"

"You claim you had no memories of me. Yet you assumed I was your intimate partner. Why? I'm a good six decades older than you. Why didn't you assume you were involved with one of your younger friends who came to visit?"

"I'm not sure." He slowed his wiping, then wrung out the sponge and replenished it with clean, soapy water. "You were so attentive, always at my side. Your worry didn't seem like the kind of worry a boss would normally have for his employee."

"You were always attentive and at my side, for decades, yet I never assumed you were in love with me. Regarded me with excessive admiration, yes, but not romantic love."

"Maybe you should have. I was definitely in love with you. It completely devastated me when you didn't show up on my last birthday." He patted Burns dry with a fresh washcloth, then put some moisturizing lotion on his hands and worked it into Burns' skin all across his torso. "All I wanted for my birthday was to spend the evening with you."

"Why don't we do a re-creation of that night? Or rather, a revision. Once I'm out of this hospital, I'll go to your place, and we'll have the evening you envisioned."

"It won't change things between us."

"If our partnership must end, let it end on a pleasant note."

Smithers set aside the sponge and gathered the damp towels, then dressed him back in his hospital gown. "I'll consider it."

"Oh, and Waylon – thank you for remembering the lotion. The nurses here frequently forget, and my skin gets cracked and dry."

"It was my pleasure, Monty."


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

"Thanks again for helping me move my things back in," said Smithers as he sat up on his couch.

"You're welcome," said Julio from the kitchen. "Which soup did you say you wanted?"

"Vegetable beef."

"Are you sure you don't want me to make you a real meal?"

"No, thanks. Soup is all I want. Besides, if I get hungry later, I can always get something from the hospital cafeteria."

"Are you sure it's such a good idea to keep seeing Monty?" he said, opening the can of soup and emptying it into a pot.

"I'm just helping him stay clean and healthy. The nurses don't know how to take care of him properly like I do."

"Uh-huh."

"We're through. I'm not going to tolerate his lying or callous behavior anymore."

"Sure, Waylon."

"I don't know why you're so skeptical. Sometimes a sponge bath is just a sponge bath."

"Maybe I'm skeptical because this is like, the fifteenth time I've heard you swear you weren't going to go back to him."

"What do you even mean by 'go back to him'? We've only been a couple since my accident a few months ago."

"So you've said."

"What, you don't believe me?"

"Well..."

"Monty told me himself, he made our whole relationship up. That's _why_ I'm not going back to him."

"Maybe you two weren't officially dating, but... Do you remember that spread in _Gayfield News_ in 1998?"

"As if I read tabloids, even gay ones."

"Not even the one headlined, 'Springfield's Nuclear Power Couple?'"

"It sounds vaguely familiar."

"It should. I found a copy of it in your hope chest."

Smithers rolled his eyes. "It's a travel trunk."

"Whatever. It had pictures of you and Monty out on the town, and you both seemed pretty 'out.' One picture even showed him holding your hand. Another showed him hugging you and resting his chin on your shoulder on a Ferris wheel."

"Let me see it." Julio stirred the soup, then went into Smithers' room and retrieved the newspaper pages from the trunk. When he returned to the living room, he unfolded the paper and showed him the pictures and accompanying article. "Oh, that's all. I remember the time he held my hand," he said, pointing at the picture. "We were going to a restaurant without valet parking for the first time, and he was frightened to be in such a bad neighborhood. He was a lot more sheltered at that time."

"I can kind of buy that. But can you look at that photo of you in the Ferris wheel and tell me he had no romantic feelings for you?"

Smithers scrutinized the photograph. "He held my waist because he was afraid the wind would blow him away. That's all."

"Does that also explain why he's nuzzling his chin against your shoulder?"

"He was probably cold."

Julio's voice dropped in incredulity. "Seriously?"

"Why would he have lied to me about this if we had actually been a couple? Why would he break my trust in him and screw with my sense of reality if it wasn't true? It doesn't benefit him."

"I believe that you two weren't officially a couple, even in private. When we were dating, you said he never reciprocated. But it's pretty obvious you two both wanted to be a couple, even then."

"So, what are you saying, that I should get back together with him? Even after he consistently blew me off, then lied to me over and over?"

"No. I've always thought you'd be better off if you got over him. Like, everyone has. What I am saying is I don't think he made up everything about your relationship."

"Oh, so you're siding with him? Saying I'm responsible for making up a fairy tale about us, too?"

"I meant that some of what he told you may have been more real than you think." Smithers furrowed his brow, staring off as he mulled. "Now un-furrow that brow, honey, your soup is ready." Julio brought him a bowl of soup on a potholder and held it in front of him.

It took him a moment to snap back to the present and take the soup from him. "Thanks, Julio."

That afternoon, when he went to visit Burns, he brought a photo album with him. He entered Burns' private room with the photo album and a crutch under one arm and a newspaper under the other. "Waylon, how good to see you!"

Smithers sat beside Burns' bed. "We need to get a few things straight."

"I know, you're still upset with me. I wouldn't expect you to forgive me overnight."

"I need to know the truth."

"I've already told you about my deception."

"Yes. And you promised you would tell me the truth from now on." He set the photo album on a tray over Burns' lap. "I want you to start with the truth about our past."

Burns nodded with trepidation. "Yes, I suppose I owe you that." He opened the album at the beginning. "Here is the first company picture taken since you began to intern at the plant. You were, oh, twenty or so. You were such a hard worker, so eager to please. You started out in accounting, but you were so impressively sycophantic in my presence, I quickly transferred you to work directly for me." Other pictures on the page showed Smithers working in Burns' office, ending with one of Smithers standing by Burns with some tea at a board meeting. "I confess, I saw you as little more than a good deal then. But you quickly grew on me.

He turned the page. "I was sad to see you go when the internship ended, but you had your degree to finish, and then you spent a year or so in the Navy." He pointed to some pictures of his going-away party. "When you returned, I was so puzzled that you'd left with anything but an honorable discharge, I was sure it was an error. You were much too impressive for me to believe you had done anything to deserve anything but highest honors."

"Here we were at our first company retreat together at Lake Springfield. You organized most of the activities." There was a picture of them out on a boat, Smithers holding a fishing line while Burns reclined sipping a cocktail, then a picture of them relaxing on adjacent lawn chairs. "You caught and cooked some fish for me, and that's when I decided I needed to expand your duties to include being my primary chef. Oh, and these are from our plant production of H.M.S. Pinafore," he said, pointing to Smithers in his naval costume. "I saw you had a real artistic talent and put you in charge of arranging my entertainment. You picked out which shows we'd see, which gallery exhibitions were worth our time, and so forth."

"What about this trip?" said Smithers, turning a few pages to the pictures of them at a camping trip, Smithers looking irritated and exhausted. "What's the story behind these?"

"That was our last camping trip upstate, as I told you."

"But you never told me the story about what happened. You glossed over it."

"Let me begin by telling you about our first camping trip together."

"No, Monty. I've heard you talk all about how things were wonderful between us. I need to start hearing about what went wrong."

"I'll get to that, all in good time. But first, you need to understand what led up to that." Smithers parted his lips, planning to object but not finding the needed words. "Our first camping trip was about fifteen years ago. It was the first time I had taken you on vacation with me instead of us taking separate vacations. You had always spent your vacations visiting me at the plant, checking in on me at the manor, or arranging for us to see a show together after I left work, and efficiency plummeted whenever we weren't working as a team, so it seemed sensible to merge our vacations, although technically you were still on duty to serve me.

"We shared a cabin on the lake, and for a week, we enjoyed each other's company and no one else's. By day, we relaxed by the lake, fished, took walks in the woods. By night, we dined on your gourmet-level cooking and washed it back with fine wine, then sat by the fire, regaling each other with stories. They were merry anecdotes, for the most part, but one night, we delved into darker territory without ever leaving the cabin.

"I think you started it, telling me of some time you'd been bullied in school, and I told you of how my grandfather beat me into submission, and I vowed that once he went to his grave, I would never let anyone push me around again. I would never let myself be vulnerable to anyone again. But I just couldn't help but be vulnerable to you.

"I started to cry, and you held me to your bosom and comforted me. I let you hold me for hours until I fell asleep. When I awoke the next morning, you were slumped over in my bed, still holding me. From then on, comforting me became one of your unofficial duties.

"It was ironic, thinking of it now – you wished you had grown up with your father, while I wished I never had a father, or a grandfather. When we left the lake at the end of the week, I felt a much deeper bond with you, and neither of us had to say it as we both knew – we were officially friends. You were the only one I could trust enough to be vulnerable around. You were the only one I could trust not to take advantage of me.

"For years, I continued to think of us in that way – just two very close friends. I was utterly in denial. You were, for all intents and purposes, my life partner. I craved whatever physical contact I could eke out of you – whenever inspectors visited the plant, my anxiety warranted a hug from you. Whenever idiotic employees vexed me, I needed a scalp massage from you. Whenever I shook hands with you to apologize, I made it last as long as possible.

"In the last ten years, I began to dream about you. I confided to my old psychiatrist about these dreams, and he gave me some Freudian cock and bull story, which I was all too happy to accept as long as our intimate physicality had some non-literal interpretation. I had been with other men before, but I had attributed those dalliances to youthful exploration and had decided I would settle down with a lady. I had no intention of falling in love with a man, least of all a subordinate.

"And yet, I continued to dream about you. My analyst would posit the source of my dreams as anxiety about profits, but then profits would soar, and I continued to dream about you. He proposed a variety of theories about the source of my conflict, each one revealing a fatal flaw, until about five years ago, he shrugged his shoulders and suggested that I am deeply attracted to you. I dismissed him angrily, and I took it out on you.

"I had to prove to myself that I didn't love you. I began dating women again, I rebuffed you at every turn. When you struck up casual conversation, I would chastise you for your excessive familiarity. Anything to keep a cold, professional distance between us, even as I craved your scent. You were late _once_ in your time working for me, and I rebuked you sternly. Every morning when you woke me, I repeated in my head, _'He is only a lackey,'_ over and over, and I did the same every night you tucked me into bed.

"I made you drive me in a rickshaw during the Springfield Marathon. I let you take the fall for me when a whistleblower revealed environmental violations at the plant. I let you take the fall for buying opium for me in Morocco. I dangled a promotion in front of you for outstanding performance but never let you have it even after you continued to exceed my expectations. I used you as a human shield to protect me from assorted rotted foods flung at us by adolescent miscreants. I even refused you access to the escape pod I'd had built for us during an accident at the plant.

"So it should come as no surprise that at our last vacation at the lake, I barked orders at every opportunity and made you sleep outside in the rain when you failed to carry out the impossible ones. I had behaved similarly the last few years during our vacations, instigating fights for no real reason except to keep us from getting too close. I wanted to move on from you, but short of firing you and moving away, I didn't see how that would be possible. So I tried treating you with a callous distance.

"I was a damned coward and a fool. I don't deserve to have you back, but I don't know how else I'd live."

"Monty..." Smithers stood, leaning on one crutch and wiping the tears from Burns' eyes. He stroked Burns' cheek, then leaned in and kissed him. "In spite of everything, I still can't stand to see you cry." Smithers sniffed back a tear of his own. "So I can't understand how you could stand to treat me so callously for years on end."

"I didn't want to own up to my feelings for you. I was brought up to see such affection as a mental problem at best."

"So was I. I even got _married,_ Monty! But I still treated you like gold, even when you were broke, and even when you treated me as a subordinate. Because I loved you." He turned the page in the photo album to the time when Burns lived at his apartment. "But you didn't love me."

"No. I didn't." Burns stared into the candid Polaroids Smithers had taken of him – one of him sleeping on the couch, one of him at the breakfast table in a cheery mood due to the success of his new recycling company, and another of him at the breakfast table, scowling as he didn't understand what Smithers found picture-worthy of them having breakfast. "I was deeply attracted to you, and I longed for a more intimate connection, but I didn't love you. Not as you loved me. Not as I love you now." He turned the page in the album to a picture of Smithers and himself at a cocktail party. "I think it should be clear by now I do love you. I wouldn't be in this hospital bed if I didn't love you."

"I know you love me, Monty. You might even love me as much as it's possible for you to love someone. I just don't know if that's enough."


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

 _Burns opened the passenger door to his limousine, gesturing for Smithers to step inside. As he started the car driving, he said, "I thought we'd dine at Luigi's tonight. How does that sound?"_

" _Anyplace sounds marvelous if I'm with you."_

" _I thought you might say that." He pulled in front of the restaurant, then pulled his key out of the ignition and handed it to Smithers. "Park the car while I get us a table."_

 _Burns had already shut the door by the time Smithers said, "Sure thing, sweetheart."_

 _Smithers found a nice spot illuminated by a streetlamp in view of one of the restaurant windows, then went inside and approached the table Burns was sitting at. Looking irritated, Burns said, "What took you so long?"_

" _I was only gone a minute."_

" _And where's my seat cushion?"_

" _I must have left it in the car. I'll go get it."_

" _Well, hurry up! I want to get this over with."_

 _Smithers' cheek and eye twitched, apprehensive about where Burns' foul mood would lead. "R-right away." He ran for the limousine and retrieved Burns' seat cushion, then ran back inside and slid the cushion between Burns and his chair. "Is that better?"_

" _Sit down and eat."_

 _Smithers looked down at the table, seeing a plate of chicken almondine and a glass of red wine. "You ordered for me?"_

" _I won't have you keeping me here waiting for you to finish eating."_

" _But Monty, I'm severely allergic to almonds."_

" _You should've thought of that before coming to a restaurant that serves almonds."_

" _I have the dosing and scheduling of your three dozen medications committed to memory, but you can't bother to remember my one food allergy?"_

" _Besides, the sooner we're done eating, the sooner I can get you into bed with me."_

" _So that's really all you want from me."_

" _Of course I want other things from you. You do prepare my taxes."_

" _Not anymore!" Smithers stood up, his chair skidding backward as he drew the attention of other diners. "From now on, you can do your own taxes, you can run your own nuclear plant, and you can go fuck yourself!" He marched out of the restaurant and got behind the wheel of the limousine, then peeled out and sped off into the night._

 _As he turned the corner, he saw Burns step out into the street, flailing his arms in desperation like Popeye's Olive Oyl. He stepped on the brakes. "Waylon, wait!" As Burns ran to the passenger side door, Smithers stepped on the gas, zipping past him. A few blocks up ahead, Burns dove into the street from a mailbox. "Give me another chance!" Smithers accelerated, and Burns grabbed onto the rear bumper of the car, rippling in the wind like a flag in a hurricane. "I love yooou..." wailed Burns as he lost his grip and flew onto the pavement._

Smithers awoke with a start, his heart beating thrice a second and sweat bubbling out of his pores like geysers. He glanced at the clock. _Two o'clock in the morning._ He let his head fall back onto his pillow. _I'd better not have another four hours like that._ He looked up at the massive painting of Burns in his room. _I still don't know why he rejected this one for the Burns wing. He looks so striking._ He closed his eyes in mourning of their closeness. _How could you treat me that way for so long?_ Tears slipped out, giving way to gasping breaths as he grappled with the reality that one he'd loved so much could be so callous to him. _How could you...?_

He reached for a bottle of whiskey behind his headboard, where he'd kept some during his last alcoholic spiral, but found none. _Maybe I moved it and forgot._ He put his glasses on and got up, pulling his robe closer to ward off the chilly morning air as he headed for the kitchen in his wheelchair, then looked through the kitchen cabinets. _What happened to my liquor? I just bought a few bottles when I moved back in here. I didn't drink it that fast._ He looked around his apartment, finding nothing. Halfway toward resignation, he went back to his room and turned the light back on, searching behind the headboard again. This time, he found a paper taped to his bed. He grabbed it and read:

 _I took your hard liquor with me. I'll give it back, but you have to call me and talk. The last thing you need now honey is to become a drunken wreck._

 _-Julio_

Smithers furrowed his brow in annoyance. _At least he cares. Did Monty ever do anything like that for me?_ Something told him the answer was 'no.' _Why did I leave him to hopelessly chase after Monty? How did I get so hung up on a man who usually treated me as a means to an end?_

In lieu of whiskey, he went back into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of a Napa Valley Merlot, which he drank in bed while staring up at Burns' portrait. _Am I cursed to love you for the rest of my life?_

* * *

Homer, Lenny, and Carl stood outside of Burns' hospital room along with an assortment of other people from the plant, as well as some others who were in some way connected, sometimes tangentially at best, with Burns or Smithers.

Homer turned to Carl and said, "Do you know why Burns ordered us all to come here?"

Carl said, "I told you, none of us know."

The Blue-Haired Lawyer motioned for Lenny to enter Burns' hospital room and stood outside the door while Lenny was inside. To each person who entered, Burns posed the question: "What made Smithers fall in love with me years ago?"

Lenny: "Um... uh..."

Carl: "Frankly, that's always been a mystery to me."

Homer: "Well it can't be your looks! I mean –"

Jack Marley: "If I tell you, will you re-hire me?"

Charlie: "I once heard him say he loved your malevolent smile."

Mindy Simmons _(while eating a doughnut)_ : "Hm?"

Lenny (again): "Maybe he's attracted to how powerful you are."

Carl (again): "Maybe cranky old misers are his type."

Homer (again): "I mean, it couldn't be your personality. D'oh!"

Blue-Haired Lawyer: "I decline to answer, as doing so could put me at risk of being sued for spreading gossip in the workplace."

Kent Brockman: "According to my sources, he thinks you're sexy."

Krusty _(while smoking a cigar)_ : "Maybe he wants to cash in when you kick the bucket."

Jimbo _(candy bars sticking out of his pockets)_ : "I dunno, man... I was just here to steal from the vending machines."

As Jimbo left the hospital room, Marge approached Homer from the other end of the corridor. "Did you find out what Mr. Burns wanted?"

"Yeah," said Homer. "He wanted to know why Smithers is in love with him."

"What did you say?"

Homer shrugged his shoulders. "I'm a nuclear something guy, not a psychologist."

"Maybe I can help."

"What would you know about being in love with a jerk who orders you around?"

"When Waylon and I became friends, we talked about his feelings for Mr. Burns."

"By the way, I left a few clogs in the bathroom and kitchen before I left that you'll want to take care of sooner than later."

Marge murmured in disapproval, then headed for Burns' door. Once inside, she said, "Mr. Burns? I heard why you brought all these people here, and I think I can help."

Eyes revealing he was unconvinced, he said, "Oh, really?"

Marge nodded. "No one but Waylon can say why he's in love with you, but one thing he told me was that he felt you were the only person who truly understood him. He said he felt honored that he was one of the few people you didn't sneer at as beneath your contempt." Burns sneered in contempt of her, but she proceeded anyway. "He's your closest friend, yet for most of the last decade, you've treated him like he has no purpose other than being your own personal Alexa to order around. Still, he felt like he'd earned a special place in your heart. Don't let him down. It's painful when you have to turn down a love that you can't return, but it's downright tragic when you turn away a love you desperately want to share."

Burns bit his lower lip, casting his eyes down to the floor. "Maybe you can convince him of that."

"I don't think that's what he needs convincing of."

"What more can I say or do? I was prepared to sacrifice my life for him. There is no one else I would have done that for."

"I believe you."

"Then what more do I need to prove to him?"

"There's more to a successful relationship than loving someone, Mr. Burns. You need to be able to function together."

"We've functioned well as a team for two decades."

"Mmm... it's different being in an intimate relationship."

"Yes, I see."

"Try to understand what it's like to be him. How it must feel to be in love with someone for half of your life, only for them to treat you like another lowly servant. Think of the good times you two had and how you treated him then. You'll see what attracted him to you."

"How it must feel..." Burns looked at her with a peculiar blend of gratitude and puzzlement that she had actually given him a helpful, thoughtful answer. "Yes, I think I shall." He curled the corner of his lip slightly upward in an attempt to force a smile. "Thank you."

"Good luck, Mr. Burns," said Marge as she left the room. As soon as she had closed the door, she saw Smithers approaching. "Waylon, hello!" She leaned forward for a hug but stopped short when she saw Smithers' expression of unease and lack of recognition. "You look like you're doing so much better."

"Do I know you?" Smithers said, squinting an eye as he searched his memory.

"Yes, Waylon. I'm Marge Simpson, Homer's wife. I visited you in the hospital."

"Huh. I don't remember that, either. But there's a lot I still don't remember."

"I'm the wife of one of your employees at the nuclear plant. We became friends commiserating over the antics of the men we love."

"If your man twists your heart up half as much as mine does, I'm so sorry," said Smithers, putting his hand on Marge's shoulder in sympathy.

"If you'd like, after your visit with Mr. Burns, you could join me for tea at my house, and we can catch up."

Smithers smiled, charmed by her geniality. "That sounds good."

"I'll meet you in the lobby and give you a ride there." She patted his shoulder and said, "Good luck," before heading for the elevator.


End file.
